m^M 


Bfmm 


..^-■■^^■'»a 


Q 


1U.  VuO 


Brown  County 
Folks 

By  Kin  Hubbard 


Being  a  Full  Year's  Review  of  the  Sayings  and 
Doings  of  Abe  Martin  and  His    Brown 
County,  Indiana,  Neighbors,  Includ- 
ing   a    Stirring    Tale    by 
Miss  Fawn  Lippincut 

Entitled 

The  Lost  Heiress  of  Red  Stone  Hall 


ILLUSTRATED   BY  THE   AUTHOR 


ABE  MARTIN  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
INDIANAPOLIS 

One  Dollar 


Thanks  are  due 

The  Indianapolis  News  for  permission 

to  republish  Abe  Martin's  sayings 

in  this  volume 


WM.    ■■   BURFORU 

lliDIANAWOt.1* 


To  Richard  Smith, 

my  friend  and  commander-in-chief, 

this  book  is 

affectionately  and  respectfully  dedicated 


ABE       MARTIN'S 


ABE  MARTIN 


From  a  Photograph  TaXen  "During  the 
Reconstruction  JPeriod 


BROWN  COUNTY  FOLKS 


A  feller  kind  o'  feels  like  givin'  up  when  he 
sees  his  grocer  pour  a  quart  o'  oysters  in  a 
pint  bucket. 

jr 

Professor  Tansey  asked  Pinky  Kerr  what 
he  knowed  o'  "Th'  Road  t'  Mandelay,"  an' 
Pinky  said,  "Why,  have  you  bought  a  auto?" 

I'm  alius  glad  when  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin" 
comes  along,  fer  then  a  feller  knows  jist  ex- 
actly what  he's  goin'  t'  see  fer  his  money. 


Th'  feller  that's  afraid  t'  kick  on  his  wife's 
coffee  is  up  agin  it. 

M 

Pinky  Kerr  says  he  don't  think  much  o' 
aviation.  He  used  t'  travel  with  a  fly  by  night 
circus. 


ABE      MARTIN'S 


Who    remembers    th'    ole    slang    sayin's, 
'Whoa,  Emma,"  an'  "Git  ther',  Eli?" 


Whatever  become  o'  th'  ole  fashioned  bash- 
ful girl? 

Ever'buddy  stood  up  at  Melodeon  Hall  last 
night  when  th'  orchestra  played  "My  Country 
What  is  it  t'  You." 

M 

While  cuttin'  a  magazine  in  a  hammock  yis- 
terday  Miss  Opal  Moots  severed  a  artery  in 
her  nose.  Her  mother,  who  wuz  ironin'  in  th' 
cellar,  escaped  uninjured. 


Th'  feller  that  puts  a  rubber  band  around 
his  pocketbook  never  pays  over  a  quarter  far  a 
meal. 


BROWN  COUNTY  FOLKS 


Don't  hate  t'  part  with  a  dollar.  It  won't 
go  very  far. 

It  seems  like  th'  more  jewelry  a  feller  wears 
th'  bigger  graft  he's  workin'. 

M 

A  sadder  but  wiser  man  is  a  thousan'  times 
more  agreeable  t'  meet  than  th'  feller  that 
never  makes  a  mistake. 

Prof.  Alex  Tansey  addressed  th'  high  school 
yisterday  on  th'  Higher  Drama  an'  said  that 
ten  er  twenty  cents  wuz  enough  t'  pay  t'  see 
any  show. 

Miss  Elcine  Bud  says  she  alius  hates  t'  git 
thrown  out  o'  an  auto  'cause  th'  papers  spell 
her  name  wrong. 

[2] 


ABE       MARTIN'S 


A  homely  girl  alius  writes  a  purty  hand. 


Folks  that  go  'way  fer  th'  summer  er  gen- 
erally th'  ones  we  kin  spare  th'  easiest. 


Th'  trouble  with  aviatin'  is  that  th'  more 
successful  you  are  th'  farther  you  fall. 


Tell  Binkley  says  th'  saddest  words  o' 
tongue  er  pen  er  "I  have  t'  buy  new  tires 
agin." 

One  o'  th'  worst  things  'bout  our  prosperity 
is  that  you  can't  git  anybuddy  t'  work  that's 
loafin'. 

M 

It  don't  seem  t'  be  any  trouble  fer  a  vaude- 
ville performer  t'  come  back. 


BROWN  COUNTY  FOLKS 

A  farmer  alius  holds  his  se-gar  like  it  wuz 
a  firearm. 

JBT 

Our  movin'  picture  manager  has  advertised 
fer  a  girl  that  talks  thro'  her  nose  t'  sing  bal- 
lads. 

JS 

A  feller  is  so  glad  t'  save  a  dollar  these  days 
that  he  don't  care  whether  a  bank  is  safe  er 
not. 

M 

O'  all  th'  snips  th'  feller  that  tells  th'  things 
his  wife  hears  is  th'  worst. 


O'  all  th'  malcontents  th'  non-producer  is 
th'  worst. 

It   takes   an    intelligent   man   t'   talk   silly 
around  women. 


ABE       MARTIN'S 

Fer  ever'  well-t'-do  bachelor  ther's  forty 
women  tryin'  t'  associate  his  early  life  with 
some  sickly  romance. 


Ther  hain't  much  difference  between  bein' 
in  th'  hands  o'  your  friends  er  th'  hands  of  a 
receiver. 

Speakin'  o'  unselfish  devotion,  Lafe  Bud  is 
teachin'  his  sister  t'  swim. 


Ez  Pash  asked  Dr.  Mopps  what  wuz  th' 
matter  with  Tipton  Bud,  an'  he  said,  "Oh,  you 
wouldn't  know  if  I  could  pronounce  it." 

M 

Miss  Tawney  Apple  will  return  from  Tulip, 
Indiany,  t'day,  havin'  been  away  from  her  gold 
fish  over  night  fer  th'  first  time. 


BROWN  COUNTY  FOLKS 


Nobuddy    ever    asks    fer    a    shirt   like    his 
mother  used  t'  make. 

Th'  girl  that  talks  about  somethin'  besides 
boys  an'  clothes  is  called  intellectual. 


Somebuddy  alius  gits  th'  hot  end  of  a  com- 
promise. 

Next  t'  a  Shanghai  rooster  ther  hain't 
nothin'  as  proud  as  a  little  girl  with  her  first 
parasol. 

M 

Th'  trouble  with  a  garden  is  tryin'  t'  keep 
your  wife  from  pullin'  ever'thing  too  soon. 


Most  fellers'  idea  o'  a  good  dinner  alius  in- 
cludes hot  biscuits. 


ABE      MARTIN'S 

Speakin'  o'  mergers,  El  Jones,  th'  pros- 
perous hog  raiser,  has  married  his  butter 
woman. 

Miss  Tawney  Apple's  niece  wuz  premature- 
ly drowned  yisterday  while  walkin'  in  a  canoe. 

M 

If  you  don't  know  anything  good  t'  say 
'bout  a  feller  make  up  somethin'. 

Th'  feller  that  marries  a  home  never  gits 
thro'  payin'  fer  it. 

M 

Hon.  Ex-Editor  Cale  Fluhart  says  insur- 
gency means  "incipient  revolt  agin'  authority" 
an'  not  revision  downward. 


Miss   Fawn   Lippincut   is   havin'   her   ears 
bulldogged  fer  a  new  pair  o'  garnet  earrings. 


BROWN  COUNTY  FOLKS 


Ther  haint  nothin'  as  hard  as  a  easy  pay- 
ment. 


ABE       MARTIN'S 


Publishin'  campaign  contributions  after  th' 
election  is  like  lockin'  th'  blacksmith  shop 
after  a  country  bank  has  been  robbed. 


Tilford  Moots  is  tryin'  t'  git  a  house  built 
accordin'  t'  specifications  an'  has  called  on  th' 
Gov'nor  fer  troops. 

It  seems  almost  impossible  fer  a  literary 
woman  t'  do  anything  with  her  hair. 

Tipton  Bud  has  a  new  corn  shredder. 
Hands  off. 

M 

It's  goin'  to  be  mighty  expensive  t'  live  t'  a 
ripe  old  age. 

A  boy's  best  friend  is  his  mother,  but  his 
father  buys  his  clothes. 


BROWN  COUNTY  FOLKS 


'Pendycitis  never  killed  nobuddy  till  th'  doc- 
tors found  out  what  caused  it. 


If  at  first  you  don't  succeed  don't  succumb. 

Ther's  alius  somebuddy  at  ever'  little  func- 
tion that  kin  say  jist  what  they  please  an' 
nothin's  thought  o'  it. 

Half  th'  world  don't  know  how  th'  other 
half  lives — an'  what's  worse,  it  don't  care 
a . 

I'd  like  t'  see  a  Christmus  when  everbuddy 
got  what  wuz  comin'  t'  'em. 

Th'  greatest  hustler  in  th'  world  is  th'  feller 
that's  raisin'  a  dime  fer  a  drink. 

13] 


ABE       MARTIN'S 

Some  folks  er  alius  out  at  th'  right  time. 

What's  become  o'  th'  ole  fashioned  wife  that 
used  t'  foller  her  husband  out  t'  th'  sidewalk 
an'  kiss  'm  goodby? 

JS 

Several  English  sparrows  lit  on  th'  black- 
smith shop  t'day  an'  give  th'  locality  quite  a 
metropolitan  appearance. 

Lots  o'  fellers  ask  a  question  jist  t'  an- 
swer it. 

M 

Uncle  Ez  Pash  says  he's  made  all  he's  got 
an'  spent  all  he's  made  in  th'  chicken  business. 


It  seems  t'  be  easy  t'  teach  an  ole  farmer 
new  tricks. 


BROWN  COUNTY  FOLKS 

Brooms  er  so  high  it  hardly  pays  t'  sweep. 

Jff 

Th'  Umit  wuz  reached  at  th'  Little  Gem 
Resturint  yisterday  when  a  stranger  ordered 
rare  liver. 

Th'  best  Saturday  bargain  is  a  bath. 

It's  possible  t'  look  pleasant  an'  still  look 
sane — but  it's  very  difficult. 


Th'  papers  have  talked  so  blamed  much 
'bout  th'  high  cost  o'  livin'  that  even  folks  in 
good  circumstances  er  wonderin'  where  ther 
next  meal  is  comin'  from. 

It  will  be  cheerin'  news  t'  those  who  er  wor- 
ryin'  along  on  chuck  steak  t'  know  that  this  is 
t'  be  th'  banner  automobile  year. 


ABE      MARTIN'S 

Miss  Fawn  Lippincut  appeared  b'fore  th' 
Art  Embroidery  Club  t'day  an'  read  a  paper 
on  "How  t'  Hold  a  Husband's  Love  Thro'  th' 
Rhubarb  Season." 

Th'  party  that  hasn't  got  any  chance  t'  win 
alius  nominates  a  good  ticket. 

Th'  Ben  Davis  apple,  like  other  frauds,  is  a 
good  looker. 

Tootin'  your  own  horn  won't  git  you  in  th' 
procession. 

What  would  a  four  flusher  do  without  a 
frock  coat? 

Tell  Binkley  covered  his  auto  number  with 
mud  an'  went  t'  Seymour  t'day. 


BROWN  COUNTY  FOLKS 


I  wonder  where  th'  ole  time  fertographer 
went  when  he  died? 


Political  floppers  gather  no  moss. 

M 

Some  fellers  run  a  tourin'  car  like  they  wuz 
tryin'  t'  git  away  from  th'  mortgage. 

Tipton  Bud  has  sold  his  shotgun  an'  '11  quit 
tryin'  t'  raise  chickens. 

An  auto  never  returns  without  a  driver. 

M 

Niles  Turner  says  that  while  livin'  is  th' 
highest  he's  ever  knowed,  he'd  hate  t'  go  back 
t'  th'  ole  days  when  we  used  paper  string  an' 
had  t'  wait  till  th'  middle  o'  August  fer  a  to- 
mater. 


ABE       MARTIN'S 


If  ther's  anything  in  a  feller  a  small  assess- 
ment will  bring  it  out. 

Too  many  folks  go  thro'  life  jist  readin'  th' 
head  lines. 

One  good  thing  'bout  bein'  a  man  is  that 
you  kin  git  by  with  any  kind  of  a  hat  on. 


Ther  haint  no  advantage  in  country  butter 
unless  you  know  who  churns  it. 

Mrs.    Tilford    Moots    bought    a    beautiful 
twelve-payment  rug  this  mornin'. 


Who   remembers   th'  ole   time   nosegay — a 
geranium  leaf,  a  fuchsia  an'  some  tin  foil? 


BROWN  COUNTY  FOLKS 


One  o'  th'  things  a  college  boy  never  fails 
t'  learn  is  how  little  his  father  knows. 


ABE      MARTIN'S 

It's  no  trouble  t'  win  in  th'  end. 

M 

Even  folks  that  know  it  all  often  consult  a 
lawyer. 

I'd  like  t'  see  another  good  ole-time  county 
fair  with  high  wheel  sulkies  an'  a  fat  woman 
smokin'  a  clay  pipe  in  th'  north  end  o'  th'  art 
hall. 

It  used  t'  be  two  could  live  cheaper'n  one, 
but  now  it  don't  make  any  difference. 

I'd  hate  t'  live  in  a  city  when  they  com- 
mence t'  parole  them  storage  eggs  at  Omaha. 

Th'  only  time  any  heart  interest  ever  gits 
mixed  up  with  a  potato  masher  is  at  a  kitchen 
shower. 


BROWN  COUNTY  FOLKS 


In  openin'  th'  campaign  here  this  afternoon 
Hon.  ex-Editur  Cale  Fluhart  vigorously  de- 
fended th'  Aldrich  bill  an'  said  th'  American 
people  did  not  begin  t'  eat  enough  carrots. 


It  don't  look  like  we'd  ever  have  t'  double 
track  th'  straight  an'  narrow  path, 

M 

It's  nice  t'  go  t'  th'  the-ater  once  in  a  while 
jist  t'  see  th'  folks  that  owe  you. 


Buttermilk  is  a  good  drink,  an'  what's  best 
o'  all,  ther  haint  a  pang  o'  regret  in  a  barrel. 

Lafe  Bud  has  lost  his  job  at  th'  meat  shop 
'cause  his  thumb  was  too  light. 


Nobuddy  but  a  lawyer  ever  waits  fer  both 
sides  o'  a  story. 

[4] 


ABE       MARTIN'S 


When  it  leaked  out  to'day  that  Lafe  Bud 
an'  his  wife  were  not  altogether  happy  an  ex- 
tra session  o'  th'  Art  Embroidery  Club  wuz 
called. 

Miss  Fawn  Lippincut  put  on  her  hobble 
skirt  this  afternoon  an'  started  fer  th'  the-ater 
at  6  o'clock. 

We're  alius  disappointed  when  we  see  th' 
grown-up  son  of  an  ole  friend. 

JS 

Nobuddy  ever  got  rich  that  mixed  a  checker 
board  up  in  his  business. 

A  feller  haint  ole  as  long  as  he  kin  balance 
peas  on  a  knife. 

President  Taft's  motto  seems  t'  be  a 
"square  meal." 


BROWN  COUNTY  FOLKS 


Th'  feller  that  hugs  his  wife  in  company 
often  kicks  her  at  home. 


Speakin'  o'  opportunity,  Hon.  ex-Editur 
Cale  Fluhart  says  that  years  ago  he  wuz 
offered  a  job  o'  runnin'  a  threshin'  machine, 
but  somehow  he  drifted  in  t'  journalism,  where 
he  frittered  away  th'  best  years  o'  his  life. 

With  all  th'  newspapers  filled  with  beauty 
hints  it's  funny  we  don't  see  more  beauties. 

JS 

Th'  author  o'  "Home,  Sweet  Home"  never 
had  a  home  an'  th'  feller  that  makes  all  th' 
money  on  eggs  never  owned  a  hen. 

M 

Our  humane  society  has  asked  Constable 
Plum  t'  prohibit  th'  movin'  pictures  o'  Roose- 
felt  in  South  Africa. 


ABE       MARTIN'S 


St.  Helena 


In  his  address  before  the  Colonial  Whist 
Club  last  evening  at  the  home  of  Miss  Fawn 
Lippincut,  Professor 
Alex  Tansey  talked 
most  entertainingly  of 
the  little  Napoleon.  In 
referring  to  the  Island 
of  St.  Helena  he  said: 

"Instead  of  this  his- 
toric speck  being  the 
desolate  rock  that  it  is 
popularly  supposed  to 
be,  the  Island  of  St. 
Helena  is  the  most 

beautiful  spot  imaginable,  rank  with  tropical 
greenery  and  superbly  wooded.  Besides  the 
climate,  which  is  the  most  healthy  in  the 
world,   the    island   supports    a   nine-hole    golf 


Pro/.  Tansey 


BROWN  COUNTY  FOLKS 


/^r- 


r^ 


The  Popular  Idea  of  St.  Helena 


ABE       MARTIN'S 


course.  The  river  Sane  winds  its  way  to  the 
sea  through  a  beautiful  peaceful  valley.  In 
this  valley  Napoleon  spent  much  of  his  time, 
and  those  who  picture  him  standing  on  a  bar- 
ren, volcanic  rock  looking  for  a  sail  would  be 
surprised  if  they  could  see  how  charming  that 
favorite  spot  is.  There  once  stood  the  old 
house  of  Count  Bertrand,  through  whose  shut- 
ters Napoleon  loved  to  watch  the  British 
troops  drill  on  Deadwood  plain.  Napoleon 
did  not  like  the  idea  of  being  seen,  so  in  the 
shutters  he  had  two  holes  made — one  on  a 
level  with  his  eye  when  standing  and  the 
other  when  seated." 

Continuing,  the  Professor  said: 

"Bertrand's  house  with  its  little  front  room 
has  long  since  disappeared,  but  the  holes  are 
still  there." 


BROWN  COUNTY  FOLKS 


Things  you  order  by  telephone  seem  t' 
weigh  less. 

No  matter  how  mad  a  office  holder  gits  he 
never  quits. 

M 

Speakin'  o'  sand  papered  spareribs,  you 
might  jist  as  well  buy  a  xylophone  fer  dinner. 

Ever  notice  what  pretty  women  th'  girls 
have  grown  t'  be  that  you  used  t'  snub  at 
school? 

M 

Folks  that  unwrap  caramels  durin'  a  play 
should  be  made  t'  spend  one  whole  Sunday  in 
Urbana,  Ohio. 

Who  remembers  th'  ole  fashioned  butcher 
that  used  t'  give  away  th'  liver? 


ABE       MARTIN'S 

Dr.  Mop  says  he  alius  hates  t'  see  th'  cool 
fall  days  come  'cause  his  wife  builds  a  fire  in 
th'  settin'  room  stove  an'  burns  all  th'  money 
he's  saved  durin'  th'  summer. 

Lafe  Bud  never  gits  through  tellin'  'bout 
gittin'  kicked  out  o'  a  hut-tel  at  New  Paris, 
Ohio,  fer  usin'  a  orange  spoon  on  St.  Patrick's 
day. 

After  causin'  a  lot  o'  inconvenience  an'  ex- 
tra work  Mrs.  Tipton  Bud's  niece  has  returned 
t'  her  home  at  Lilac,  Indianny,  after  a  most 
delightful  visit. 

JS 

Tell  Binkley  has  a  new  auto  suit — fer  th' 
spring  term. 

JS       ■ 

Ther  wuz  a  ole  fashioned  one-ring  weddin' 
at  th'  Tilford  Moots  home  t'day. 


BROWN  COUNTY  FOLKS 

Some  folks  git  credit  fer  havin'  boss  sense 
that  haint  ever  had  money  enough  t'  make 
fools  o'  'emselves. 

It's  better  t'  hand  it  t'  others  than  it  is  t' 
receive. 

Th'  school  o'  experience  has  no  holidays. 

One  o'  our  prominent  society  women  has 
been  doin'  her  own  work  fer  three  days  with- 
out anybuddy  knowin'  th'  difference. 

M 

Miss  Fawn  Lippincut  has  written  a  new 
polar  song  called  "Beautiful  Moonlight  Days." 

M 

Hon.  ex-Editur  Cale  Fluhart,  who  is  well 
educated  in  th'  higher  branches,  is  trimmin' 
th'  trees  around  th'  court  house. 

[5] 


ABE       MARTIN'S 

What's  become  o'  th'  couple  that  used  t' 
live  happily  ever  afterwards? 

M 

A    feller    should    never    marry    a    girl    till 
they've  tried  t'  pick  out  a  rug  t'gether. 


Th'  trusts  know  we  all  want  t'  live,  no  mat- 
ter how  much  it  costs. 


Ther's  lots  o'  honest  people  who  never  had 
a  good  chance  t'  be  anything  else. 


Th'  worst  sensation  I  know  of  is  gittin'  up 
in  th'  night  an'  steppin'  on  a  toy  train  o'  cars. 


I  guess  "Th'  Music  Master"  is  a  purty  pa- 
thetic play,  as  Lafe  Bud  cried  when  he  paid 
fer  his  ticket. 


BROWN  COUNTY  FOLKS 

Uncle  Ez  Pash  has  a  son  that's  holdin'  out 
at  th'  People's  Bank. 

Pinky  Kerr  ordered  a  head  an'  tail  parsnip 
at  th'  Little  Gem  resturint  yisterday. 

M 

Tilford  Moots  has  returned  Tipton  Bud's 
plow  an'  borrowed  his  bobsleds. 

Th'  more  cultured  th'  audience  th'  less  you 
see  o'  the  first  act. 

It's  almost  impossible  fer  a  total  stranger  t' 
git  a  drink  in  a  dry  town. 

Aunty  Pash,  though  very  frail,  still  retains 
her  faculties  t'  a  remarkable  degree  an'  talks 
most  interestin'ly  o'  th'  old  yeller  clarinet. 


ABE       MARTIN'S 

Folks  that  er  married  fer  ther  money  never 
seem  t'  tumble. 

Ever'buddy's  figurin'  on  th'  time  when  they 
won't  have  t'  work. 

M 

Lafe  Bud  says  he'd  love  t'  live  in  a  city  an' 
be  able  t'  keep  a  Prince  Albert  coat. 

George  Washin'ton  never  told  a  lie  an'  he 
wuz  also  a  poor  business  man. 


Some  feller  stole  a  load  o'  peaches  here  Sat- 
urday night  an'  Constable  Newt  Plum  has  jist 
returned  after  a  fruitless  search. 


Nothin*  upsets  a  woman  as  much  as  th' 
marriage  o'  somebuddy  she  didn'  even  know 
wuz  .engaged. 


BROWN  COUNTY  FOLKS 


All  signs  fail  when  you  pick  out  a  cante- 
loupe. 

M 

What  comes  easy  goes  easy — unless  it's 
relatives. 

M 

A  big  tombstone  don't  mean  nothin'  but 
money. 

Speakin'  o'  th'  wave  o'  extravagance,  lots  o' 
workin'  men  now  eat  hominy  at  every  meal 
that  used  t'  be  satisfied  with  th'  cheaper  cuts 
o'  beef. 

M 

Next  t'  a  Californy  railroad  folder  th'  most 
allurin'  thing  is  a  poultry  catalog. 

I  guess  th'  hardest  thing  in  th'  world  t'  do 
is  think  o'  a  name  when  you  git  caught  in  a 
raid. 


ABE       MARTIN'S 


While  crossin'  th'  street  this  mornin'  in  a 
hobble  skirt  Miss  Fawn  Lippincut  wuz  run 
down  by  a  dray. 

Our  commercial  club  has  advertised  fer  a 
brick  layer  that  kin  play  a  clarinet  an'  make 
a  municipal  gas  plant  pay. 

Tipton  Bud's  nephew  has  finished  his  grad- 
uation essay,  "Life's  Feverish  Battle  Now  Be- 
gun," but  he  won't  go  t'  work  at  th'  sawmill 
till  after  th'  comet. 

M 

Th'  fifteen  hoboes  that  have  been  enter- 
tained here  by  our  commercial  club  durin'  th' 
census  takin'  were  driven  out  o'  town  t'day. 

M 

Who  remembers  th'  ole  fashioned  mother 
that  used  t'  make  her  children  gargle  soap 
suds  ever'  time  they  said  a  bad  word? 


BROWN  COUNTY  FOLKS 


Tilford  Moots  is  havin'  his  kitchen  made 
smaller  so  his  wife  won't  lose  any  time. 


After  all  th'  care  an'  worry  a  mother  goes 
thro'  th'  first  thing  a  baby  says  is  "papa." 


Lafe  Bud,  who  wuz  married  in  October,  has 
accepted  a  job  that'll  keep  him  away  from 
home  as  much  as  possible. 


Misery   attracts    a    dog   an'   little   children 
warm  up  t'  a  bachelor. 

Mrs.   Tipton   Bud   has   a   nephew   that's   a 
aviator  an'  she  says  it's  all  he  kin  do  t'  keep  up. 


Th'  only  time  some  fellers  ever  mention 
ther  wives  is  when  they  tell  how  they  cook 
somethin'. 


ABE       MARTIN'S 

A  broken  umbrella  alius  has  a  purty  handle. 

You  can't  live  in  town  an'  raise  chickens 
with  impunity. 

Th'  meetin'  called  t'  consider  th'  resigna- 
tion o'  Rev.  Wiley  Tanger  broke  up  in  a  fight 
over  th'  length  o'  Jack  Johnson's  arm. 


Rev.  Wiley  Tanger  talks  some  o'  droppin' 
out  o'  th'  ministry,  as  his  wife  don't  care  fer 
croquet. 

Ignorance  gives  a  feller  away  quicker'n  a 
celluloid  collar. 

Miss  Germ  Williams  says  she  made  a  vine- 
gar pie  th'  first  time  she  tried  without  th' 
struggles  an'  hardships  that  er  so  often  th' 
share  o'  th'  world's  celebrities. 


BROWN  COUNTY  FOLKS 


It  seems  like  jist  as  soon  as  a  feller  gits 
prominent  and  well-t'-do  some  relative  alius 
dies  in  th'  poor  house. 


Rev.  Wiley  Tanger  says  that  while  he  wuz 
bitterly  opposed  t'  th'  Reno  fight  he's  glad  a 
R'publican  won. 

M 

Aurelius  Bud,  whose  graduation  essay, 
"Th'  Young  Man's  Opportunity  in  America," 
caused  so  much  favorable  comment,  is  takin' 
tickets  at  th'  nickel  the-ater. 

Tell  Binkley  run  over  a  little  child  with  his 
auto  this  mornin',  but  as  he  hates  notoriety  he 
didn'  stop. 

Tipton  Bud's  brother,  who  went  West  t' 
investigate  a  minin'  proposition,  has  returned 
thoroughly  recovered. 

[6] 


ABE      MARTIN'S 


What's  become  o'  th'  little  boy  that  used  t' 
roll  a  hoop  instead  o'  a  cigaret? 


High  as  things  are  you  kin  still  git  too 
many  beets  fer  a  nickel. 

Mrs.  Celia  Jones,  who  wuz  one  o'  our  most 
promisin'  June  brides,  is  at  home  on  parole. 

A  piano  tuner  is  puttin'  a  new  wire  fence 
around  th'  court  house. 

Th'  Colonial  Whist  Club  meets  at  Miss 
Tawney  Apple's  t'day  t'  decide  on  a  waist  line 
fer  th'  comin'  season. 


Rural  delivery  has  put  a  crimp  in  th'  farmer 
that  used  t'  drive  t'  town  twice  a  day  t'  git  a 
weekly  newspaper. 


BROWN  COUNTY  FOLKS 


Miss  Germ  Williams  had  her  skull  terra- 
pined  this  mornin', 

M 

Why  is  it  you  alius  have  t'  drag  people  t' 
an  intellectual  treat? 

Jff 

It's  been  many  a  day  since  anybuddy  named 
a  child  Matilda. 

Grantin'  that  beans  er  both  cheap  and  nu- 
tritious, we  are  still  up  agin  th'  piece  o'  thir- 
ty-five-cent bacon  that  goes  with  'em. 

Ther's  lots  o'  new  auto  models,  but  th'  ole 
mortgage  form  remains  unchanged. 

M 

Young  Lafe  Bud  has  been  offered  a  job  o' 
bookkeepin'  up  t'  Indynoplus,  but  he  don't  like 
coffee  an'  doughnuts. 


ABE       MARTIN'S 

Politics  is  jist  one  rotten  se-gar  after  an- 
other. 

Ever  notice  how  long  a  girl  with  a  gold 
tooth  laughs  at  nothin'? 

M 

Of  all  th'  end  seat  hogs  th'  one  with  a  corn 
is  th'  worst. 

Miss  Tawney  Apple's  aunt  dropped  dead 
this  mornin'  while  her  husband  wuz  drinkin' 
coffee  out  o'  a  saucer. 

Fawn  Lippincut  says  a  8-mile  pie  is  one 
you  make  without  a  kitchen  cabinet. 


THE  LOST  HEIRESS 

sT  RED  STONE  HALL 


A  Story  of  Woman* s  Lo'be  and  Man's  Perfidy 


BY  MISS  FAWN  LIPPINCUT 

NOTE. — The  cigarettes  used  in  almost  every  chapter 
of  this  story  are  the  celebrated  Pride  of  the  Harem  brand, 
while  the  chestnut  mare  mentioned  at  various  times  early 
in  the  narrative  was  kindly  loaned  by  the  O.  K.  livery  barn. 


To  the  Reader 


Gentle  Reader — In  relating  the  life  story  of 
Marion  Ellsworth  I  have  struggled  hard  to 
avoid  those  commonplace  con- 
ventionalities that  go  to  make 
the  modern  novel  so  tiresome. 
It  has  been  my  purpose  al- 
ways to  take  the  most  direct 
route,  regardless  of  tunnels, 
and  bring  the  reader  as  quickly 
as  possible,  without  change,  to 
the  climax  of  each  event  as 
they  follow  one  another  in 
rapid  succession.   Unavoidably, 
you  will  have  a  few  hills  to 
climb,  but,  I  am  pleased  to  say, 
no  long,  tiresome  journeys  to 
and  fro  across  the  continent,  as  I  have  dex- 
terously kept  the  theater  of  my  simple  narra- 


Miss  FaWn 
Lippincut 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 


tive  entirely  within  a  mile  square.  At  the  be- 
ginning of  each  chapter  it  has  been  rather 
necessary  to  add  a  little  dash  of  scenery — ^just 
enough  to  serve  as  a  background  for  the  differ- 
ent settings  as  the  story  unwinds  itself. 

If,  as  I  so  fondly  hope,  this  tale  shall  be  the 
means  of  saving  only  one  young  girl  from  the 
snares  and  pitfalls  that  even  lurk  in  the  most 
out-of-the-way  country  nooks — of  teaching  her 
that  all  is  not  gold  that  glitters  and  that  many 
a  black  and  treacherous  heart  beats  beneath  a 
frock  coat — I  shall  feel  amply  repaid  for  my 
efforts,  even  tho'  I  am  left  with  the  whole  edi- 
tion on  my  hands. — Miss  Fa.ivn  Lippincut, 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 

CHAPTER  I 

Behind  the  Honeysuckle  Vines 

It  was  the  month  of  primroses.  A  warm 
spring  rain  had  fallen  throughout  the  day  and 
the  evening  air  was  heavy  with  the  perfume 
of  bursting  buds. 

Situated  in  a  natural  amphitheater,  the  lit- 
tle county-seat  town  of  X  was  completely 
hedged  in  by  almost  insurmountable  wooded 
hills  whose  jagged  crests  were  sharply  sil- 
houetted against  the  leaden  sky.  The  stores 
and  bazars  of  curious  architecture  that  flanked 
the  old,  tumble-down  court  house  on  every  side 
were  dark  and  silent.  A  horse  hitched  to  a 
narrow  buggy*  pawed  restlessly  under  the 
flickering  light  of  a  soft  drink  pool  room  and 
nickered  loudly  as  a  few  belated  rounders 
emerged  with  boisterous  laughter. 

Far  to  the  east,  nestled  among  the  foliage 


*Buggy.     A  vehicle. 

171 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 


on  the  hillside,  stood  a  sanatorium,  and  the 
rattle  of  crutches  on  the  hard  floor  of  the  low, 
spacious  veranda  that  fronted  it  could  be  dis- 
tinctly heard  across  the  wide  expanse  of  pas- 
ture land.  All  was  life  and  bustle  about  the 
green  roofed  structure,  and  cries  of  both  tor- 
ture and  merriment  filled  the  night  air,  while 
the  wheezy  notes  of  a  leaky  accordeon  added 
to  the  weirdness  of  the  scene.  It  was  a  mot- 
ley crowd  that  filled  the  brilliantly  lighted 
porch.  The  fame  of  the  crystal  springs  that 
bubbled  near  at  hand  had  spread  to  many 
lands,  and  the  great  hotel  had  become  a  shrine 
for  the  lame  and  halt  of  every  tongue,  and  the 
babel  was  deafening. 

In  a  secluded  nook  completely  hidden  by  a 
particularly  early  variety  of  sweet  climbing 
honeysuckle  sat  two  men  who  conversed  in 
tones  scarcely  audible.  One  was  a  stocky, 
well  dressed  man  who  had  probably  lived  be- 
yond  the   scriptural   allotment   of   years   and 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 


whose  white  beard  was  neatly  cropped.  He 
had  the  manner  and  bearing  of  a  well-to-do 
cattle  raiser  or  an  expert  judge  of  hogs.  His 
companion  was  a  handsome,  willowy  chap  of 
splendid  proportions  and  bore  all  the  evi- 
dences of  a  man  of  the  world;  a  drooping, 
raven  black  mustache  of  no  great  length  served 
its  purpose  by  concealing  a  hard  and  cruel 
mouth,  while  his  nervous  glances  and  highly 
polished  manner  at  once  proclaimed  him  to  be 
a  bigamist  or  a  promoter.  After  listening  for 
quite  a  while  to  the  low  murmurings  of  his 
aged  companion  he  hurriedly  arose  and  grasp- 
ing his  cane  tightly  he  pushed  the  vines  aside 
and  scampered  down  the  steep  rustic  stairway 
that  led  to  the  beautifully  parked  grounds  be- 
low. Once  reaching  the  bottom  he  turned  to 
look  back,  and  as  he  did  so  he  hissed  between 
his  even  pearly  teeth,  "Fool,  we  shall  see!" 
and  was  soon  lost  among  the  olives.  His  ro- 
tund companion  sat  for  some  moments  and 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 


then  slowly  arose  and  tearing  an  advertising 
page  from  a  popular  magazine  he  carefully 
wrapped  it  about  the  butt  of  a  soggy,  thick 
five-cent  cigar  which  he  placed  snugly  away 
in  a  pocket  of  his  corduroy  waistcoat.  Wind- 
ing his  way  among  the  tables  and  chairs  and 
now  and  then  stumbling  over  a  crutch  he 
finally  reached  the  office,  where  he  left  a  call 
for  five  o'clock,  as  he  filled  a  small  granite 
pitcher  with  sulphur  water  and  ascended  the 
stairs  to  his  room. 


CHAPTER  II 

The  Mystery  of  Tha.rp's  Corner 

It  was  still  the  month  of  primroses.  After 
a  warm  rain  that  had  fallen  throughout  the 
preceding  day  the  morning  dawned  on  a  re- 
freshed landscape.  The  varying  shades  of  sun- 
kissed  greenery  were  most  entrancing ;  across 
the  billowy  grassland  the  sweet  notes  of  the 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 


red-winged  blackbird  charmed  the  ear,  while 
far  beyond  the  valley  the  dark  woodland  was 
relieved  here  and  there  by  bright  patches  of 
red  bud.  Occasionally  the  bob  white's  soft 
call  was  wafted  along  on  the  dewy  breath  of 
morn  and  all  nature  seemed  to  rejoice. 

Slowly  down  the  winding  yellow  road  came 
a  light-hearted  farmer  perched  high  on  his 
rumbling  wagon.  His  lines  hung  carelessly 
while  his  faithful  team  picked  its  way  in  a  lazy 
fashion.  The  deep  wrinkles  in  his  long  cop- 
per-colored neck  were  filled  with  clay  and  his 
brawny  hands  were  gnarled  and  knotty  after  a 
hard  season  of  toil.  His  left  cheek  was  bulg- 
ing with  an  overgenerous  quid  of  "old  Lincoln 
green,"  and  a  smile  of  perfect  contentment 
scattered  itself  over  his  well  weathered  face 
as  he  amused  himself  by  spatting  with  un- 
erring aim  at  the  nodding  dandelions  that 
peeped  from  the  grass  that  fringed  the  road- 
way. 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 

As  he  approached  a  sharp  turn  known  as 
Tharp's  Corner  and  half  concealed  by  the  low 
hanging  boughs  of  a  great  willow  his  team 
stopped  with  a  suddenness  that  almost  threw 
him  from  his  seat.  Recovering  his  equilib- 
rium and  looking  ahead  the  prostrate  form  of 
a  man  lying  face  downward  in  the  highway 
met  his  astonished  gaze.  Hurriedly  jumping 
to  the  ground  he  made  a  hasty  examination. 
A  crimson  stream  had  trickled  from  a  wound 
on  the  stranger's  head  and  wended  its  way  in 
a  wagon  track  for  some  distance  down  the  hill, 
and  the  man  was  apparently  dead.  Return- 
ing to  his  wagon  he  unhitched  the  traces  of  his 
fleetest  horse  and  galloped  at  high  speed  to  the 
village  of  Z,  where  he  told  of  his  grewsome 
find. 

Soon  the  road  leading  to  the  scene  of  the 
awful  discovery  was  black  with  humanity, 
while  plows  stood  idle  in  the  fields  and  homes 
and  shops  were  deserted. 


OF   RED    STONE    HALL 

Constable  Plum  was  the  first  to  reach  the 
lifeless  form,  and  with  his  heavy  cane  held  the 
fast  assembling  peasants  at  bay  till  Dr.  Mopps, 
the  aged  coroner,  should  arrive. 

After  some  hours  the  frail  and  bent  doctor 
drew  up  in  his  gig.  Alighting  with  much  ef- 
fort, the  nonagenarian  handed  his  high,  primi- 
tive plug  hat  into  the  keeping  of  a  morbid  on- 
looker. Quietly  rolling  back  his  sleeves  and 
displaying  his  thin,  pale  wrists  he  carefully 
tucked  his  long,  white  whiskers  into  the  bosom 
of  his  tightly  buttoned  and  glossy  Prince  Al- 
bert ;  then,  adjusting  his  spectacles,  he  slowly 
kneeled  over  the  dead  body  with  all  the  nerv- 
ous effort  of  a  trained  horse  and  fumbled  about 
for  the  heart. 

Life  was  extinct,  and  the  most  careful 
search  failed  to  reveal  the  slightest  evidence 
whereby  the  dead  stranger  might  be  identified. 
Even  the  trademark  on  his  rich  and  well  made 
clothing  had  disappeared,  as  had  also  the  laun- 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 


dry  mark  on  his  polka  dot  shirt ;  only  a  tooth- 
brush was  found,  and  as  the  prehistoric  coro- 
ner held  it  triumphantly  in  his  trembling  hand 
high  above  his  pink  bald  head  he  exclaimed 
in  a  weak,  piping  voice, 

"Evidently  a  man  of  culture." 

That  one  so  well  dressed  and  groomed 
should  be  found  dead  and  penniless  left  no 
doubt  in  the  minds  of  the  now  infuriated  vil- 
lagers that  a  murder  for  gain  had  been  com- 
mitted, and  loud  cries  for  vengeance  echoed 
and  re-echoed  through  the  wild  hills. 

The  fragile  coroner  arose  and  pleaded  for 
cooler  heads.  After  the  hisses  died  away  he 
mounted  a  stump  and  addressed  the  frenzied 
mob,  saying: 

"Neighbors  and  friends,  the  fact  that  this 
poor  dead  stranger  is  found  well  dressed  and 
without  money  must  not  be  interpreted  to 
mean  that  he  has  been  slain  and  robbed,  as 
such  a  condition  is  not  an  unusual  one.     There 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 


can  be  no  doubt  that  the  gaping  wound  at  the 
base  of  his  skull  readily  argues  that  he  walked 
away  from  death  instead  of  into  it.  Yet  there 
is  no  legal  proof  that  he  did  either  or  both,  or 
any  reason  to  suppose  that  he  might  if  he 
had." 

The  venerable  homeopath  then  gave  it  as 
his  opinion  that  the  stranger  had  suicided,  and, 
taking  up  the  large  pearl-handled  revolver  of 
the  latest  pattern  that  had  been  found  near 
the  scene,  he  attempted  to  demonstrate*  to 
the  now  quieted  multitude  how  easily  one 
might  shoot  himself  with  his  left  hand  from 
the  rear.  In  doing  so  he  blew  off  his  right 
ear  and  killed  a  fat  steer  in  a  field  hard  by. 

This  fresh  sensation  caused  great  tumult, 
and  it  was  some  time  before  the  excitement 
died  down  and  the  crowd  dispersed,  much 
chagrined  at  the  verdict. 


*  Demonstrate.     (French)   demonstrer.     To  point  out, 
to  show. 

[81 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 

Constable  Plum  was  the  last  one  to  leave 
the  scene,  and  as  he  walked  reluctantly  from 
the  blood-stained  spot  his  eagle  eye  was  at- 
tracted to  a  bright,  shining  object  lying  just 
beneath  a  clump  of  sassafras.  Picking  it  up 
it  proved  to  be  a  small  silver  fleur  de  lis  of 
peculiar  design  that  had  undoubtedly  orna- 
mented a  purse  or  pocket  case.  He  carefully 
placed  it  in  his  wallet  and  proceeded  on  his 
way  to  the  village. 

In  due  time  the  dead  stranger  was  given  a 
decent  burial  in  the  little  churchyard,  and  the 
mystery  of  Tharp's  Corner  passed  out  of  mind 
while  the  chipmunks  burrowed  in  his  silent 
mound. 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 

CHAPTER  III 

Red  Stone  Hall 

Since  early  in  the  eighteenth  century  Red 
Stone  Hall  had  been  the  home  of  the  Ells- 
worths. The  original  estate  had  embraced 
many  thousands  of  acres,  but  as  it  passed  from 
one  shiftless  generation  to  another  its  fertile 
fields  and  grand  old  forest  lands  had  been 
seized  for  debt  until  now  the  last  remaining 
heir  could  only  boast  of  the  great,  steep,  bar- 
ren knoll  upon  which  reposed  the  ancient  and 
venerable  mass  of  stone  and  mortar  that  shel- 
tered her  and  her  feeble  uncle. 

In  the  past  the  old  turreted  mansion  had 
been  the  scene  of  riotous  revelry,  for  the  early 
Ellsworths  were  lavish  entertainers,  and  their 
famous  hospitality  had  attracted  distinguished 
men  and  women  from  far  and  near  to  the  ro- 
mantic spot.  The  later  heirs,  too,  were  built 
much  along  the  same  lines,  but  their  inten- 
tions were  seriously  crippled  by  a  dwindling 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 


exchequer,  and  their  efforts  at  sociability  were 
sometimes  pitiful  to  behold. 

Simon  Ellsworth,  the  last  male  heir,  in- 
herited not  only  the  combined  shiftlessness  of 
those  who  had  passed  before  him,  but  also 
their  passion  for  the  cup  and  love  for  the 
chase.  When  not  sitting  by  a  sticky  table  in 
the  tap  room  of  the  tavern  or  chasing  a  fox 
he  was  polishing  ramrods  or  carving  a  powder 
horn.  When  flushed  with  ale  he  loved  to 
gather  his  cronies  about  him  and  tell  them 
over  and  over  again  the  story  of  the  French 
soldiers  who  had  visited  Red  Stone  Hall  years 
before  and  begged  to  be  permitted  to  bury  a 
chest  of  rich  treasure  far  beneath  the  cellar 
floor,  how  his  grandfather  had  consented  and 
how  it  had  remained  untouched  ever  after- 
ward. 

Many  wondered  why  he  did  not  dig  it  up 
and  get  a  hair  cut  and  a  suit  of  clothes,  but 
Simon  Ellsworth  was  a  hotheaded  man  and  no 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 


one  had  ventured  to  take  the  matter  up  with 
him.  His  wife,  to  whom  he  was  tenderly  at- 
tached, faded  and  died  when  their  only  child. 


The  Tale  of  the  Hidden  Treasure 

a  daughter,  was  but  a  babe,  and  Simon  Ells- 
worth, whose  great  grief  had  destroyed  his 
mind,  wandered  away  to  parts  unknown. 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 

Marion  Ellsworth  was  now  a  beautiful  ga- 
zelle-eyed girl  of  eighteen  who  lived  solely 
upon  a  small  annuity  settled  upon  her  by  the 
good  aunt  who  had  tenderly  cared  for  her  up 
to  the  time  of  her  death  some  months  before. 

Marion  had  inherited,  along  with  the  vine- 
covered  bat's  nest  and  the  proud  spirit  of  the 
Ellsworths,  the  sweet,  confiding  nature  of  her 
mother,  and  went  about  her  daily  tasks  with  a 
light  heart  and  an  arched  expression.  Her 
only  suitor  was  Steve  Warren,  a  husky  young 
farmer.  While  his  collar  never  seemed  to 
come  together  right  and  his  hair  was  cut  with 
clippers,  Marion  looked  upon  him  fondly,  and 
the  knowing  ones  pointed  him  out  as  the  com- 
ing master  of  Red  Stone  Hall. 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 

CHAPTER  IV 

The  Unfla.gging  Constable 

It  is  now  yellow  October,  no  longer  divided 
from  summer  by  the  plumy  sheaf  and  linger- 
ing flowers. 

There  is  a  rich  hectic  flush  on  the  woodland 
and  every  wind  that  blows  pales  the  crimson 
hue  or  scatters  its  beauty  on  the  empty  air, 
for  everywhere  around  us  leaves  are  falling. 
In  the  orchard  a  few  apples  hang  and  the 
elders  still  nod  under  the  weight  of  purple  ber- 
ries. As  evening  approaches  the  landscape 
seems  to  assume  a  sober  hue  and  the  call  of 
the  cow  falls  on  the  ear  with  a  sad  sound  and 
produces  a  low  feeling  which  we  are  seldom 
sensible  of  at  the  change  of  any  other  season 
of  the  year.  Everything  is  decaying  to  pro- 
duce the  life  and  beauty  of  a  coming  spring. 

It  is  now  almost  six  months  since  the  mys- 
terious murder  near  Tharp's  Corner  startled 
the  little  community,  and  still  not  the  faintest 
semblance  of  a  clew  presented  itself. 


THE    LOST   HEIRESS 


Poor  old  Constable  Plum  is  now  but  a 
wavering  shadow  of  his  former  self.  Ever 
since  the  bright  spring  morning  when  he 
walked  slowly  away  from  the  blood-stained 
highway  he  has  known  no  rest,  and  during  the 
long,  dreary  interval  he  has  made  many  fruit- 
less pilgrimages  to  where  nobody  knows,  re- 
turning each  time  with  a  few  new  lines  of 
despair  and  several  pounds  lighter.  His  whole 
heart  and  soul  are  wrapped  up  in  the  solving 
of  the  crime.  Visiting  strangers  are  watched 
closely  and  often  detained  and  carefully  ques- 
tioned. Indeed  not  a  few  embarrassments  are 
the  result  of  the  unflagging  zealousness  of  the 
tireless  constable.  As  time  goes  on  and  the 
mystery  deepens  the  aged  sleuth  rattles  like  a 
dried  pod  as  he  glides  softly  in  and  out  of  the 
alleys,  and  many  and  ludicrous  are  the  dis- 
guises he  assumes  as  he  sits  in  the  tavern 
ofBce  and  eyes  the  guests  as  they  arrive  and 
depart,  often  changing  his  whiskers  in  their 
very  presence  with  a  deftness  that  defies  detec- 
tion. 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 


CHAPTER  V 
Gerald  Leigh  Appears 
It  was  a  fine  morning  in  October  and  the 
brilliant  foliage  of  the  hills  was  fast  thinning 
out.     The  meadows 
were  still   green  in 
spots  and  the  shocked 
corn  on  the  faraway 
slopes  looked  for  all 
the  world  like  some 
vast  tented  army.    The 
'%  year's  crops  had  for 
^t^    the  most  part  been  gar- 
nered,  and  the  joy- 
ous farmers  stood  in 
clumps  about  the  tiny 
trading  places  and 
talked  of  the  bountiful 
yield. 

As   the    old   yellow   bus,    piled   high    with 
trunks  and  bags,  rolled  up  and  halted  in  front 

[9] 


A  Consummate 
Scamp 


THE    LOST   HEIRESS 


of  the  Valley  House  a  solitary*  passenger 
alighted,  and  pushing  his  way  through  the 
crowd  of  curious  villagers  he  entered  the  hos- 
telry and  approached  the  desk,  where  he  hur- 
riedly grasped  a  pen  and  dashed  across  the 
register  with  a  firm  but  graceful  hand  the 
name,  "Gerald  Leigh,  New  York."  After  giv- 
ing some  instructions  as  to  the  disposal  of  his 
luggage  he  asked  to  be  shown  the  best  room, 
the  modest  inn  afforded,  as  hd  wished  to  re- 
tire after  his  long,  tiresome  journey. 

Gerald  Leigh  was  the  only  son  of  erstwhile 
wealthy  and  aristocratic  parents.  He  had 
been  given  all  the  advantages  that  money 
could  command — educated  in  the  schools  and 
colleges  of  European  capitals,  and  pampered 
and  petted  at  home.  His  splendid  educational 
attainments  together  with  his  handsome  ap- 
pearance and  natural  grace  of  manner  well 
equipped  him  for  a  first-class  lady  killer.     His 

*Solitary.     Just  one. 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 

father's  sudden  reverses,  which  were  brought 
about  by  his  own  mad  speculations,  were  a 
great  shock  to  him  and  brought  him  face  to 
face  with  a  situation  that  at  once  called  for 
some  tall  humping.  Cursing  his  father  roundly 
he  left  his  mortgaged  roof  vowing  that  the 
world  should  pay  for  his  predicament — and 
pay  well — and  he  launched  forth  on  a  career 
of  loot  and  crime. 

Never  before  had  anyone  appeared  in  the 
village  that  seemed  so  distinctly  and  thorough- 
ly out  of  drawing  with  its  environments  as 
dashing  Gerald  Leigh.  At  first  there  was  a 
flutter  and  then  a  general  shrinking  from  his 
very  presence.  However,  it  was  short  lived, 
for  this  affable  scoundrel  by  his  masterly  style 
of  pitching  soon  won  favor  and  fairly  slipped 
into  the  confidence  and  good  graces  of  all — 
high  and  low.  Even  Constable  Newt  Plum 
fell  an  easy  victim  under  the  charm  of  this 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 

genial,  captivating  villain,  beneath  whose  glos- 
sy veneer  there  lurked  a  murderous  heart. 

Gerald  Leigh  soon  became  a  familiar  figure 
as  he  rode  about  the  village  or  along  the  coun- 
try lanes  on  his  spirited  chestnut  mare  with  all 
the  ease  and  manner  of  a  prince.  He  knew 
every  crook  and  crevice  of  Red  Stone  Hall,  of 
the  rich  treasure  that  lay  hidden  beneath  the 
old  ruin  and  of  the  valuable  ore  deposits  that 
honeycombed  the  somber  clay  knoll  from 
which  it  reared  its  crumbling  chimney  pots. 
He,  too,  had  seen  Marion  Ellsworth,  the  proud 
rustic  beauty  and  only  heir  to  the  tumble- 
down, debt-burdened  estate,  which  he  intended 
to  have  as  his  own,  come  what  might. 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 

CHAPTER  VI 

The  First  Meeting 

Autumn  still  has  one  out-of-door  scene  both 
interesting  and  beautiful  and  pleasant  to  walk 
through,  and  that  is  the  pumpkin  harvest,  the 
last  ingathering  of  the  year  that  finds  employ- 
ment for  the  cheery  farmer  folk;  nor  is  there 
many  prettier  American  pictures  to  be  seen 
than  a  well-managed  pumpkin  plantation.  The 
drowsy  odor  of  the  pumpkin,*  so  different 
from  that  of  new  mown  hay  and  the  hawthorn 
bud,  is  very  soothing.  What  a  splendid  mo- 
tion there  is  to  the  golden-colored  fruit  as  it 
rolls  away  from  some  careless  farmer  lad  and 
plunges  down  the  steep  brown  hill,  scattering 
the  cornstalks  pell-mell  that  stand  like  senti- 
nels in  its  path  until  it  reaches  its  goal  in  some 
sylvan  retreat  near  the  rail  fence. 


*  Pumpkin.     A  deciduous,*  trailing  plant  and  its  fruit. 
*Deciduous.     Falling  off;  applied  to  leaves  that  fall. 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 

Merry  people,  too,  are  the  pumpkin  pickers, 
whether  at  their  work  or  going  or  coming  from 
the  fields. 

It  was  on  a  bright  morning  in  October,  just 
cool  enough  to  be  bracing  and  to  bring  the 
rose  bloom  to  the  cheek,  that  lovely  Marion 
Ellsworth  skipped  with  a  light  heart  on  her 
way  to  the  stile  to  meet  Steve  Warren.  Her 
lithe,  girlish  form,  clad  in  pink  chambray, 
swayed  to  and  fro  as  she  fairly  danced  through 
the  tall,  wet  grass,  stopping  now  and  then  to 
pluck  some  dainty  flower  that  had  escaped  the 
blighting  hand  of  the  early  frost.  Her  wealth 
of  golden  hair  hung  in  a  fluffy  mass  from  her 
well-poised  head  and  her  red  lips  smiled  as 
she  approached  the  trysting  place  near  the 
wild,  long-neglected  orchard. 

As  she  freed  herself  from  a  great  tangle  of 
wild  grape  vines  that  impeded  her  progress 
she  stood  face  to  face  with  Gerald  Leigh. 
She  drew  back  with  a  startled,  half  pleased 


OF   RED    STONE    HALL 

look,  and  in  another  instant  made  bold  to  dash 
by  him,  when  his  strong  arm  held  her  a  will- 
ing captive.  "Ah,  fairest  flower,  don't  be 
startled,"  said  he  as  he  raised  his  English  rid- 
ing hat  and  displayed  his  perfect  brow  and 
raven  hair.  "I  have  quite  lost  my  way  to  the 
village,"  he  continued  as  he  stooped  to  look 
into  her  downcast  face. 

After  releasing  her  well-rounded  arm  he 
followed  Marion  to  a  small  eminence  from 
which  they  could  see  the  moss-covered  roof 
of  the  town  hall. 

"There,  sir,  is  the  village,"  she  said  falter- 
ingly  as  she  tried  to  hide  the  crimson  flush 
that  had  rushed  to  her  face.  Thanking  her  as 
he  twirled  his  crop  carelessly,  Gerald  Leigh 
replaced  his  hat  and  retraced  his  steps  to  his 
restless  chestnut  mount  and  was  soon  dashing 
down  the  hill  to  the  road. 

Trembling  with  emotion  as  her  pretty 
bosom  rose  and  fell,  poor  Marion  stood  be- 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 


Marion  Stood  "Bewildered 


wildered.     Never  before  had  she  met  anyone 
so  grand.     All  nature  seemed  to  change  about 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 

her.  The  meadow  larks,  now  clustered  in 
great  bevies  preparatory  to  their  annual  flight 
to  the  Southland,  seemed  to  dispense  with  all 
business  and  fairly  burst  their  little  throats  in 
joyous  song.  Reeling  with  ecstasy  Marion 
Ellsworth  somehow  managed  to  reach  the 
well-worn  seat  where  her  strong,  florid  lover 
awaited  her — but  it  was  a  changed  Marion 
that  Steve  Warren  opened  his  bronzed  arms 
to  welcome. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Gerald  Leigh  Writes  a.  Note 

Partly  on  account  of  the  beauty  of  the  day 
and  partly  because  he  wished  to  meditate, 
Gerald  Leigh  had  sought  the  quiet  solitude  of 
the  country  lanes  after  his  meeting  with 
Marion  Ellsworth.  While  he  loved  the  free- 
dom  of  country   life,   the   profession   of  agri- 

[10] 


THE    LOST   HEIRESS 

culture  had  always  been  a  huge  joke  with  him. 
On  either  side  of  the  miserable  road  along 
which  he  now  rode  were  many  perpendicular 
farms,  and  he  fairly  shook  with  laughter  as  he 
watched  the  interesting  spectacle  of  the  honest 
husbandmen  working  in  their  fields  from 
swinging  scaffolds.  Of  course,  too,  an  occa- 
sional threshing  machine  or  cultivator  stand- 
ing and  rotting  in  the  open  added  to  the  mer- 
riment that  now  completely  held  him. 

Stroking  the  glossy  mane  of  his  lively  mare 
he  laughed  aloud  as  he  said,  "How  could  the 
great  factories  thrive  if  farmers  allowed  such 
trivial  matters  to  interfere  with  their  happy 
existence?" 

Then,  scowling,  his  thoughts  reverted  to 
the  simple  beauty  he  had  met  in  the  weeds 
earlier  in  the  day. 

Gerald  Leigh  had  known  many  handsome 
women  in  his  day  and  had  survived  many  af- 
fairs of  the  heart.     The  one  thing  in  connec- 


OF   RED    STONE   HALL 

tion  with  Marion  Ellsworth,  and  the  only 
thing  that  interested  the  oily  rogue,  was  her 
inheritance.  Aside  from  that  he  reasoned  that 
she  had  nothing  new  to  offer.  He  meant  to 
win  her  confidence  and  wrest  from  her  the 
riches  that  lay  buried  beneath  the  bleak,  un- 
gainly fortress  that  sheltered  her — the  fabu- 
lous fortune  of  which  she  knew  nothing. 

Returning  to  his  hotel  Gerald  Leigh  quietly 
repaired  to  his  chamber,  where  he  stood  for 
some  moments  by  the  window  admiring  the 
beauties  of  the  quiet  autumn  evening.  Be- 
neath him  were  the  well  kept  dooryards  of  the 
little  cottages  wherein  thrifty  housewives  were 
singing  as  they  prepared  the  simple  evening 
meal,  while  their  sturdy  children  romped  on 
the  village  green. 

Wheeling  suddenly  about  Gerald  lit  an 
Egyptian  cigarette  and  then  seated  himself  by 
the  table*  and  dashed  off  a  cunning  note  to 

*Table.     Relating  to  or  resembling  a  table. 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 

Marion  Ellsworth,  which  he  read  over  slowly 
to  satisfy  himself  that  it  was  up  to  his  usual 
high  standard,  as  he  prided  himself  on  his  mas- 
tery of  English  and  spirit  of  expression. 
"She'll  be  there,"  he  hissed  to  himself  as  he 
arose  to  dress  for  his  customary  stroll  about 
town.  Selecting  a  brand  new  walking  suit 
and  a  fresh  pair  of  green  gloves  he  soon 
emerged  from  the  hotel  and  walked  toward 
the  postoffice  dressed  in  the  height  of  good 
taste  and  leaving  a  trail  of  vile-smelling  ciga- 
rette smoke  in  his  wake. 

Gifted  with  the  unusual  ability  to  adjust 
himself  to  any  strata  of  society,  Gerald  Leigh 
had  grown  to  be  a  wonderful  favorite  through- 
out the  hamlet.  With  Constable  Plum  he 
was  the  thickest  of  chums,  and  they  were 
often  seen  together  discussing  this  and  that 
phase  of  modern  crime — its  alarming  growth 
and  how  it  would  eventually  destroy  our 
whole  social  fabric.     Often,  too,  in  following 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 


some  new  lead  that  gave  promise  to  the  un- 
raveling of  the  mystery  of  Tharp's  Corner, 
Gerald  had  tendered  the  constable  the  use, of 
his  high-spirited  chestnut  hunter — an  offer,  by 
the  way,  the  foxy  old  sleuth  always  politely 
declined. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
Easy  Prey 
It  was  one  of  the  few  remaining  mornings 
of  golden  October  and  Marion  Ellsworth  sat 
upon  an  upturned  milk  pail*  beneath  a  red 
haw  tree,  from  one  of  the  lower  branches  of 
which  a  rusty  scythe  swung  in  the  breezes  and 
made  her  position  at  once  perilous.  She  was 
drying  her  hair  in  the  sun,  and  her  purple  ki- 
mona  hung  loosely  from  her  shoulders,  expos- 
ing her  perfect  neck.     She  had  quarreled  with 

*Pail.     An  open  vessel  of  wood  or  tin. 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 


Steve  Warren  on  the  day  previous  and  she 
was  peevish  and  fretful.  It  had  been  her  first 
break  with  the  rugged  young  field  hand  and 
she  half  regretted  her  harsh  words. 

Marion  was  quite  another  being  since  her 
meeting  with  the  handsome,  dark-eyed  stran- 
ger, and  her  head  was  fairly  filled  with  thoughts 
she  hardly  dared  to  own.  Visions  of  a  gay 
social  life,  fine  clothes — a  life  of  love  and  hap- 
piness— passed  quickly  before  her  as  the  rays 
of  the  autumnal  sun  danced  on  her  great  mass 
of  soggy  hair.  She  wondered  who  the  gallant 
horseman  was  and  if  he  might  still  be  in  the 
village. 

Rushing  by  her  childish  old  uncle,  who  sat 
in  the  kitchen  doorway  plaiting  a  chain  of  fall 
asters,  she  was  soon  in  her  room.  Arranging 
her  fluffy  hair  in  a  becoming  fashion  she 
quickly  jumped  into  her  most  fetching  frock 
and  was  soon  skipping  across  the  fields  to  the 
village.      Stopping  at  the  postoffice  she  was 


OF   RED    STONE    HALL 


handed  Gerald's  note.  Her  great  eyes  opened 
wide  as  she  studied  the  beautiful  handwriting 
on  the  envelope,  and  stuffing  it  securely  in  her 
corsage  she  exchanged  a  few  simple  pleas- 
antries with  the  freckle-faced  clerk  and  de- 
parted for  home. 

Singing  merrily  along  the  unfrequented 
path  she  mused  all  the  while  over  her  mys- 
terious letter,  looking  up  now  and  then  to  see 
if  anybody  was  approaching  on  horseback. 
Suddenly  she  stopped  and  drew  back  as  if  to 
avoid  a  vicious  blow. 

"What  if  it  could  be  from  Steve!"  she  said 
to  herself  as  a  cloud  fell  across  her  counte- 
nance. "Maybe  he  got  the  hotel  clerk  to  back 
it,"  she  cried  aloud  as  her  eyes  grew  moist 
with  tears.  As  she  continued  on  her  way  she 
finally  concluded  that  Steve  Warren  was  not 
apt  enough  for  such  a  trick,  and  she  broke  into 
a  low,  musical  laugh  as  she  stooped  to  pick  up 
a  fall  mushroom. 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 

Once  in  her  old-fashioned  chamber  with  its 
high  ceiling  and  massive  carved  woodwork  she 
drew  her  favorite  rocker  to  the  latticed  win- 
dow and  slowly  withdrew  the  lavender  scented 
note  from  her  bodice  and  timidly  broke  the 
seal.  In  an  instant  a  low,  muffled  shriek  fol- 
lowed and  poor  Marion  fell  back  limp  and  life- 
less among  the  cushions  of  her  antique  chair. 
Presently  her  eyes  opened  and  a  faint  smile 
played  about  her  pale  lips  as  she  arose  and 
half  reeled  to  a  little  mirror  framed  with  var- 
nished pine  cones,  where  she  surveyed  herself 
long  and  critically. 

"Am  I  indeed  so  beautiful?"  she  said  aloud 
as  she  noted  every  line  of  her  oval  face,  which 
had  now  quite  recovered  its  usual  radiant 
glow.  Slowly  turning  about  she  threw  her- 
self on  her  high  quilted  couch  and  said,  half 
sobbing  and  half  laughing,  "Yes,  I  will  meet 
him." 

As  this  resolution  died  on  her  lips  Marion 


OF   RED    STONE    HALL 


Ellsworth  sank  into  a  peaceful  slumber  and 
dreamed  of  the  dashing  deceiver  that  had  now 
entered  her  life. 


CHAPTER  IX 

Under  the  Sycamore 

It  was  dusk  and  the  blue  October  haze  was 
fast  deepening  into  an  inky  darkness.  The 
distant  tinkle  of  a  cow  bell  far  across  the  wild 
marsh  or  the  rustle  of  some  feathered  songster 
among  the  dry  leaves  on  the  boughs  high 
above  was  all  that  marred  the  quiet  stillness, 
while  the  great  golden  moon  was  just  peep- 
ing from  behind  the  left  wing  of  Red  Stone 
Hall. 

Gerald  Leigh  was  taking  his  leisure  as  he 
rode  through  the  shadows  of  the  lonely  road 
on  his  proud,  high-headed  steed.     Holding  his 

[11] 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 


cigarette  between  his  tapering  gloved  fingers 
he  half  smiled  as  the  blue  smoke  rings  arose 
from  his  hard  mouth  and  scattered  themselves 
on  the  evening  air  like  long  imprisoned  birds 
set  free.  He  had  slackened  his  pace  to  give 
the  moon  a  chance,  for  he  well  knew  that  his 
finely  chiseled  features  appeared  to  best  ad- 
vantage in  the  soft  white  light  of  pale  Luna. 
Indeed  there  were  few  effects  that  Gerald 
Leigh  had  not  studied,  for  he  was  a  born  artist 
as  well  as  a  finished  scoundrel. 

Marion  Ellsworth  at  this  moment  was  fret- 
ting and  fuming  before  her  mirror.  With  the 
last  dash  of  violet  talcum  she  sank  into  her 
chair  for  a  breathing  spell. 

How  glowingly  beautiful  she  looked  in  her 
simple  gown  as  the  color  played  about  her  per- 
fect temples.  As  she  arose  her  full  lips  wore 
a  smile  of  disdain  as  she  placed  a  cheap  gold 
ring  with  a  purple  set,  that  Steve  Warren  had 
given  her,  upon  her  tall  cherry  bureau.    Stand- 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 


ing  for  a  few  moments  as  if  seized  by  inde- 
cision she  silently  left  her  chamber  and  quietly 
closed  the  door  and  noiselessly  stole  out  of  the 
cold,  gray  mansion  and  through  the  orchard 
and  across  the  field  to  the  giant  sycamore  that 
stood  by  the  entrance  to  the  estate  near  the 
main  road.  Here  in  the  gloomy  shadows  she 
patiently  stood  and  listened  until  the  iron-shod 
hoofs  of  a  horse  were  heard  on  the  hard,  dry 
road  leading  over  the  brow  of  the  hill  but  a 
short  distance  in  the  offing.* 

"It  must  be  he,"  she  falteringly  said  half 
aloud  as  she  sidestepped  an  owl  that  swished 
by  her. 

Presently  Gerald  Leigh  dashed  up  and,  with 
a  deep  breath  of  satisfaction,  drew  rein  and 
dismounted.  Rushing  to  Marion's  side  he 
threw  his  arms  about  her  trembling  form  and 
said: 


^Offing.     Some  distance  away. 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 

"My  angel,  how  I  have  longed  for  this 
hour." 

Marion  managed  to  squeeze  out  of  the  fer- 
vent embrace  of  the  gallant  home-wrecker,  but 
not  until  she  felt  his  hot  cigarette  breath  on 
her  neck. 

They  strolled  up  and  down  a  lonely  shaded 
path  until  far  into  the  night,  Gerald  talking 
tenderly  all  the  while  of  the  beauty  of  the  au- 
tumn night,  of  love  and  the  kind  Providence 
that  had  thrown  them  together.  Poor  Marion, 
she  was  quite  captivated  by  his  rich,  deep,  mel- 
low voice  and  gentleness,  and  eagerly  drank 
in  every  word  that  Gerald  uttered,  occasion- 
ally venturing  some  trifling  remark  in  her  pret- 
tiest manner. 

It  was  a  highly  successful  first  meeting 
taken  from  any  angle,  and  when  Marion 
reached  her  room  she  was  all  in  a  pretty  flut- 
ter.    She  sat  down  by  her  window  and  it  was 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 


fast  turning  day  when  she  was  awakened  by 
the  clarion  notes  of  the  old  family  rooster. 

Gerald  Leigh  rode  slowly  back  to  the  vil- 
lage. As  he  passed  through  the  tangle  of  un- 
derbrush into  the  open  the  moon's  rays  lit  up 
his  romantic  face  and  showed  a  smile  of  fiend- 
ish satisfaction. 

It  was  a  great  night's  work  for  Gerald 
Leigh,  great  as  had  been  others  in  his  wild 
life.  He  had  learned  many  new  things  about 
Red  Stone  Hall  and,  best  of  all,  he  had  won 
the  love  and  confidence  of  the  girl  that  stood 
between  him  and  the  coveted  prize. 

"The  little  fool,"  he  hissed  as  he  lit  a  fresh 
cigarette  and  gave  rein  to  his  charger. 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 

CHAPTER  X 

Laying  the  Lines 

It  was  a  dismal,  rainy  November  day — and 
a  day,  too,  well  suited  to  the  dark,  ugly 
thoughts  that  filled  the  mind  of  Gerald  Leigh 
as  he  sat  in  his  room  clothed  in  a  rich  crimson 
bath  robe  smoking  innumerable  cigarettes.  As 
the  rain  beat  furiously  against  his  window  he 
arose  and  watched  the  drenched  and  downcast 
fowls  as  they  skulked  about  the  barn  yard  be- 
low and  sought  shelter  beneath  the  narrow 
eaves  of  a  low  shed  that  stood  therein.  Ger- 
ald Leigh  had  been  much  in  the  society  of 
Marion  Ellsworth  since  their  memorable  meet- 
ing in  the  moonlight  beneath  the  giant  syca- 
more that  guarded  the  entrance  leading  to  Red 
Stone  Hall,  and  so  sure  was  he  of  the  love  of 
the  simple,  willowy  heiress  that  his  plans  had 
long  been  made  for  a  cruise  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean, a  trip  he  had  always  wished  to  take. 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 

His  ingenuity  was  now  taxed  to  its  utmost 
with  the  details  that  had  to  do  with  his  com- 
ing marriage  to  Marion,  which  they  both  had 
agreed  should  occur  on  Christmas  eve. 

It  was  Gerald  Leigh's  one  desire  that  this 
newest  splotch*  on  his  long  list  of  criminal 
offenses  should  be  the  boldest  and  blackest  of 
all,  and  he  was  proceeding  with  great  care. 

Many  schemes  to  gain  possession  of  Red 
Stone  Hall  without  taking  over  its  fair  occu- 
pant in  the  bargain  had  evolved  themselves, 
and,  clever  as  they  might  appear  to  the  eyes 
of  a  novice,  the  shrewd  criminal  alertness  of 
Gerald  Leigh  had  at  once  detected  the  bun- 
gling features  whereby  the  finger  of  suspicion 
might  easily  point  to  himself  and  thereby  lose 
to  him  the  prize  that  was  now  so  easily  within 
his  grasp. 

"It  is  an  ideal  day  to  plan  a  crime,  old 
chap,"  said  he,  addressing  himself  to  his  ciga- 

*Splotch.     Not  given. 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 


rette,  and  he  walked  to  a  cut  glass  decanter 
and  refreshed  himself  with  a  dash  of  rare  old 
brandy.  Pacing  the  room  like  a  fellow  wait- 
ing for  a  long  distance  call,  his  brain  was  soon 
aflame  with  the  powerful  liquor  and  he  was 
becoming  saturated  with  inspiration. 

"Ah,  I  have  it,"  he  said,  bursting  into  a 
laugh  that  lasted  some  moments. 

"We  will  have  her  snatched  at  the  altar," 
he  continued,  his  face  still  purple  from  laugh- 
ter. Then  he  cursed  himself  roundly  for  not 
thinking  of  so  brilliant  a  scheme  before  and 
threw  himself  heavily  into  a  chair.  The  vari- 
ous details  of  this  new  proposition  now  came 
one  upon  another  in  rapid  succession.  It 
would  be  easy  enough  to  have  Marion  spirited 
away  at  the  close  of  the  marriage  ceremony, 
and  Steve  Warren  would  be  an  excellent  fel- 
low to  do  it.  Why  not?  Was  he  not  the 
jilted  lover  of  Marion  and  did  he  not  harbor 
a  feeling  of  resentment?     Would  it  be  difficult 


OF   RED    STONE    HALL 

to  have  him  appear  in  the  village  on  the  day 
of  the  wedding  and  later  have  him  waylaid  and 
done  away  with?     Certainly  not. 

Gerald  Leigh  now  set  about  to  arrange  for 
the  return  of  Steve  Warren.  A  dragnet  cov- 
ering the  universe  should  be  thrown  out,  and 
accordingly  he  at  once  commenced  to  get  into 
communication  with  the  trusty  confederates  of 
former  days  who  were  now  scattered  among 
the  many  great  cities  of  the  world.  Indeed  it 
was  an  undertaking  that  would  easily  appall 
Scotland  Yard,  but  Gerald  Leigh  was  a  fellow 
who  stopped  at  nothing  to  gain  his  ends.  "It 
will  be  a  fine  story  to  flash  over  the  wires  and 
stagger  humanity  on  Christmas  day,"  said  he 
as  he  refilled  his  cigarette  case. 


li« 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 

CHAPTER  XI 
Nearing  the  Abyss 

The  morning  broke  bright  and  clear.  The 
first  snow  had  fallen  during  the  night  and  the 
landscape  wore  a  mantle  of  purest  white.  The 
black,  crooked  pathways  of  the  streams  were 
clearly  marked  through  the  hills  and  bottom 
lands,  and  around  the  snow  capped  stacks  the 
shivering  cattle  huddled. 

It  was  a  typical  country  winter  scene  in  the 
tranquil  valley  far  removed  from  the  din  of 
the  city  streets — from  the  cares  of  money  and 
the  cark  of  fashion. 

It  was  the  first  real  taste  of  winter,  and  Ger- 
ald Leigh  and  Marion  Ellsworth  were  speed- 
ing along  the  village  streets  behind  a  lively 
roadster,  the  envy  of  every  onlooker.  Their 
merry  laughter  harmonized  perfectly  with  the 
musical  jingle  of  the  silver  sleigh  bells  that 
completely  encircle  the  lathered  girth  of  their 
proud  and  high-headed  mare. 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 

They  drove  far  into  the  country  and  feasted 
their  eyes  on  the  beauties  of  nature  and  talked 
of  their  plans  for  the  future.  The  chill  air, 
supplemented*  by  the  joy  and  thrill  of  being 
with  her  lover,  made  Marion  appear  more 
beautiful  than  ever  to  the  demon  who  rode  be- 
side her. 

Their  wedding  arrangements  were  all  but 
completed.  It  was  Gerald's  desire  that  the 
affair  be  entirely  private,  for  he  considered  it 
a  serious  step  in  both  their  lives  and  one  not 
to  be  accompanied  by  any  pomp  or  splendor, 
but  rather  to  be  conducted  quietly  and  with  a 
full  mutual  understanding  of  its  sacredness. 
An  extended  journey  through  Jamaica  was  to 
follow  the  ceremony.  After  their  return  to 
America  they  would  live  in  some  great  city 
where  Gerald's  interests  would  demand  him 
and  where  Marion's  life  would  be  one  of  love 


*Supplemented.     (Italian)  supplemento.     Added  to. 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 

and  happiness  surrounded  by  every  conceiv- 
able luxury. 

No  wonder  great  frozen  tears  stood  upon 
her  round,  red  cheeks  and  glistened  like  pearls 
in  the  bright  winter  sun.  She  was  crying  for 
joy  as  they  whizzed  over  the  smooth,  snowy 
surface. 

Marion's  feeble  old  uncle,  who  had  watched 
tenderly  over  her  through  childhood  when  he 
had  had  health  and  strength,  was  to  be  kindly 
cared  for  during  his  few  remaining  years  in 
some  soldier's  home  where  nothing  would  be 
too  good  for  him.  So  they  drove  along  and 
laughed  and  talked,  occasionally  stopping  to 
admire  some  particularly  pretty  prank  of  na- 
ture. 

Returning  to  the  village  as  darkness  gath- 
ered they  dined  together  at  the  hotel,  and  as 
they  pushed  their  way  through  the  crowd  of 
admiring  loungers  and  into  the  little  dining 
room   the   landlord   shook   his   head   and   re- 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 


marked  that  it  would  be  a  devilish  hard  mat- 
ter to  find  a  handsomer  pair  in  all  the  world. 

Later  Gerald  and  Marion  parted  at  the 
sleigh  under  the  shadow  of  Red  Stone  Hall, 
and  the  happy  bride-to-be  skipped  into  the 
majestic  old  ruin  and  started  to  wash  the 
breakfast  dishes  long  before  the  tinkling  bells 
of  her  departed  lover  died  on  the  winter  air. 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  Promise 

Dark  December  has  now  come  and  brought 
with  him  the  shortest  day  and  longest  night. 
The  little  shops  of  the  hamlet  wear  a  gay  holi- 
day attire,  and  behind  their  frosted  windows 
gorgeous  displays  of  gaudily  painted  toys, 
celluloid  toilet  articles  of  impossible  hues  and 
other  Christmas  wares  are  piled  high. 

As  evening  approaches  the  cheery  forge  of 
the  smithy  is  seen  through  the  open  door  and 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 

merry  children  are  sliding — as  they  break  the 
wintry  air  with  their  happy  shouts — on  the 
mill  pond  with  its  screen  of  pollard  willows. 
Now  and  then  the  report  of  the  sportsman's 
gun  sends  up  a  puff  of  smoke  which  we  see 
for  a  few  moments  floating  on  the  air  like  a 
white  cloud  against  the  woodland's  black  cur- 
tain. 

We  pity  the  poor  farmer's  wife  as  she  bur- 
rows through  the  snow,  much  after  the  fashion 
of  the  musk  ox,*  for  turnips  on  the  wind  swept 
hill,  while  the  flag-like  sedges  that  stand  up- 
right by  the  dark  mere  appear  like  sword 
blades  frosted  with  silver. 

Gerald  Leigh  hated  and  despised  winter 
above  all  things,  and  he  counted  and  recounted 
the  days  when  he  should  be  able  to  spend  the 
abominable  season  in  the  tropics  far  removed 
from  his  present  hated  surroundings. 


*Musk  ox.     A  small  ruminant  of  the  ox  family.     See 
Dr.  Cook. 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 


As  he  approached  the  great  battered  door 
of  Red  Stone  Hall  and  grasped  the  clumsy  iron 
knocker,  which  was  covered  with  hoary  rime, 
it  seemed  to  cut  his  fingers  like  a  knife  and  he 
cursed  profusely  till  the  creaking  door  swung 
open  and  covered  him  with  a  flood  of  light, 
when  his  wicked  face  softened  in  the  presence 
of  the  girl  who  loved  him  madly. 

As  he  slunked  down  the  long  hedl  to  the 
drawing  room  he  fairly  cowed  beneath  the 
stern  faces  of  the  early  Ellsworths  as  they 
frowned  upon  him  from  their  massive  gold 
frames.  "Curse  them,  they  seem  to  read  my 
innermost  thoughts,"  he  said,  as  he  sunk  heav- 
ily into  a  broad  cushioned  chair  near  the  cozy 
hearth  fire  like  some  hunted  criminal  who  had 
at  last,  after  a  long,  exciting  chase,  found  a 
haven  of  safety. 

Finally  regaining  his  old  composure  Gerald 
Leigh  watched  the  lithe,  yielding  figure  of 
Marion  as  she  softly  played  an  old  love  tune 


THE    LOST   HEIRESS 


One  of  the  Early  Ellsworths 


on  the  curiously  carved  and  ancient  melodeon, 
and  he  could  but  admit  that  she  was  most 
charming  to  look  upon.     As  the  dark,  terrible 


OF   RED    STONE    HALL 


thoughts  of  murder  flashed  through  his  brain 
great  drops  of  perspiration  fell 
from  his  fair  forehead  and  siz- 
zled and  steamed  on  the  hot 
hearth  stones  below.  Cruel  and 
heartless  as  Gerald  Leigh  was 
his  heart  now  failed  him  in  the 
presence  of  the  beautiful  crea- 
ture before  him.  As  he  sat  and 
watched  her  he  decided  that 
she  should  be  abducted  at  the 
altar  and  spirited  across  the 
continent  in  some  swift  flying 
air  craft  and  there  carefully 
guarded  until  he  should  reap 
his  golden  harvest  and  he  far  away  in  distant 
lands. 

The  perplexing  situation  now  seemed  solved 
and  he  laughingly  arose  and  softly  approached 
Marion  unobserved,  and  throwing  his  arms 
about  her  he  kissed  her  passionately. 


"And  will  you 

always  toVe 

me,  Gerald?" 


13 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 


Freeing    herself   with    a    pecuHar    twisting 
squirm  Marion  said: 

"And  will  you  always  love  me,  Gerald?" 
"Always,  my  pretty  one." 
"There,  now  you  have  promised." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Lolye  Blind 

The  season  of  winter  gayety  was  now  at  its 
height.  Croquet,  picnicking  and  other  lively 
sports  of  summer  and  autumn  were  now  re- 
placed by  such  entertaining  pastimes  as  taffy 
pulling,  who's  got  the  button,  and  charades. 

At  all  the  merry  social  gatherings  Gerald 
Leigh  and  Marion  Ellsworth  were  the  central 
figures — sweet-faced  Marion  enjoying  them 
hugely,  while  her  black-hearted  fiance  worried 
through  gracefully,  appearing  at  all  times  the 
handsome  and  gallant  lover  of  the  belle  of  the 


OF   RED    STONE    HALL 

whole  countryside  and  easily  adjusting  himself 
to  the  rude,  simple  folk  that  hung  about  and 
bored  the  life  out  of  him. 

The  wedding  was  now  just  in  the  offing 
and  the  days  were  speeding  swiftly.  Marion's 
dressmakers  were  working  'way  into  the  night 
that  no  last  moment  hitch  might  cause  any 
vexatious  delay.  Gerald  Leigh,  too,  was  busy 
not  only  into  the  nights  but  all  through  the 
dark,  tedious  days.  Steve  Warren  had  at  last 
been  located  in  Honolulu  and  a  swift  mail 
steamer  had  been  chartered  and  was  plowing 
her  way  through  the  treacherous  blue  waters 
of  the  peaceful  Pacific  bearing  him  home  at  an 
incredible  speed.  Things  were  turning  fine 
for  Gerald  Leigh,  and  the  daily  advices  from 
his  horde  of  unscrupulous  confederates  kept 
him  in  a  constant  state  of  good  cheer,  a  fact 
that  was  generally  remarked  about  his  lodg- 
ings- Around  this  hostelry  he  was  looked 
upon  as  a  gentleman  of  rare  ability — not  only 


THE    LOST   HEIRESS 

a  skilled  checker  player  but  a  wizard  at  pool 
as  well. 

Marion  had  deeded  Red  Stone  Hall  and  the 
yellow  knoll  upon  which  it  stood  to  Gerald, 
and  she  could  scarcely  wait  till  the  time  should 
come  when  she  could  deliver  it,  along  with 
her  life  and  happiness,  into  the  hands  of  the 
man  her  love  for  whom  was  fast  consuming 
her. 

She  often  stopped  while  engaged  in  her  sim- 
ple duties  about  the  household  to  laugh  at  her 
old  silly  fondness  for  Steve  Warren — how  she 
had  trailed  through  the  long  grass,  wet  with 
dew,  to  talk  and  blush  before  the  rough  coun- 
try bumpkin  as  he  leaned  upon  his  plow,*  of 
the  odor  of  pigs  and  gummy  harness  that  at 
all  times  hung  about  him — in  parlor  or  furrow 
alike. 

From  her  chamber  window  Marion  could 
see  on  the  crest  of  upland  where  the  orchards 

*Plow.     A  field  implement. 


OF   RED    STONE    HALL 

thrive  above  the  oaks,  in  shelving  distance,  the 
little  cottage  Steve  Warren  had  built  for  her 
and  him.  But  never  once  in  all  the  many  times 
she  had  looked  at  it  had  she  known  one  single 
pang  of  regret. 

Poor  Marion,  she  was  not  only  drunk  with 
happiness — she  was  soused! 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  Cloud  Appears 

It  was  a  biting  cold  Sabbath  morning  and 
the  snow  covered  housetops  glistened  in  the 
deceitful  December  sun. 

A  straggling,  motley  pageant  of  God-fear- 
ing peasants  filed  slowly  up  the  steep,  icy  path- 
way to  the  little  church  on  the  hill  that  hud- 
dled snugly  among  the  low,  white  mounds  and 
evergreens,  now  drooping  under  their  burden 
of  snow.     The  wild,  hesitating  peals  from  the 


THE    LOST   HEIRESS 


belfry  tower  seemed  to  penetrate  the  remotest 
corners  of  the  earth  so  sharp  and  distinct  did 
they  reverberate  across  the  bleak  lowlands  in 
the  cold,  clear  atmosphere. 

On  this  particular  Sunday  morning  Gerald 
Leigh  had  been  asked  to  fill  the  pulpit.  After 
the  rosy-cheeked  choir  was  seated  and  the  last 
soft,  soothing  notes  of  the  organ  had  died 
away  he  arose  pale  and  handsome.  He  talked 
of  the  joy  of  living  and  the  comfort  and  sweet- 
ness of  religion — of  the  promised  reunions  in 
the  great  beyond  with  loved  ones  who  had 
been  called  before.  Indeed  it  was  a  master- 
ful sermon,  beautiful  to  listen  to  and  wonder- 
fully delivered — a  sermon  that  caused  much 
sniffling  and  sobbing  among  the  folk  that  sat 
thrilled  before  this  eloquent  deceiver. 

At  the  close  of  the  services  Gerald  Leigh 
started  the  contributions  with  a  crisp  raised 
bill  and  then,  joined  Marion  in  the  vestibule. 
How  proud  she  was  when  the  congregation 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 


gathered  about  them  and  told  Gerald  how  help- 
ful and  impressive  his  words  had  been  and  how 
he  had  missed  his  calling. 

On  their  way  home  Gerald  was  solemn  and 
uncommunicative.  He  was  worrying  and 
studying  over  that  part  of  his  desperate  game 
that  had  to  do  with  Steve  Warren's  return — 
how  he  was  to  be  kept  in  ignorance  of  Marion's 
marriage — how  he  should  be  decoyed  to  the 
old  mill  and  there  murdered.  How  these  de- 
tails were  to  be  managed  might  well  cause 
him  uneasiness  since  they  were  to  be  most 
important  factors  in  the  final  chapter  of  his 
nefarious  plot. 

Poor,  foolish  Marion!  she  attributed  his 
moodiness  to  the  holiness  of  the  day.  Oh, 
love!  how  sightless. 

After  Gerald  had  left  Marion  at  the  thresh- 
old of  Red  Stone  Hall  she  soon  found  herself 
with  the  whole  short  December  afternoon  on 
her  hands  and  retired  to  her  chamber  to  rum- 


THE    LOST   HEIRESS 

mage  among  the  sacred  belongings  of  her  dead 
mother  which  had  for  many  years  remained 
undisturbed  in  an  old  chest. 

Gently  Marion  raised  the  cumbersome  lid 
and  there,  carefully  folded,  lay  her  mother's 
grosgrain  wedding  dress  just  as  she  had  fondly 
placed  it  away  years  before.  Under  it  she 
found  a  little  box  covered  with  flowered  paper 
and  tied  with  a  faded  silk  ribbon.  As  she 
reverently  opened  it  the  odor  of  dried  roses 
filled  the  room.  It  contained  her  mother's 
hoop  earrings  and  two  daguerreotype  portraits 
— one  of  her  father  taken  in  young  manhood 
with  his  face  reclining  in  his  left  hand,  on  the 
second  finger  of  which  was  a  massive  ring 
which  the  artist  had  cunningly  touched  up 
with  bright  gold  foil;  her  mother's  portrait, 
too,  had  been  taken  in  her  young  days  and  was 
encased  in  a  heavy  brooch,  on  the  back  of 
which  was  clumsily  soldered  a  thick  brass  pin. 
Marion's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  studied 


OF   RED    STONE    HALL 


the  sweet,  gentle  countenance,  which  so  close- 
ly resembled  her  own,  and  she  thought  of  her 
mother's  lonely,  unhappy  life. 

These  treasures  Marion  wished  to  take  with 
her,  and  as  she  arose  a  feeling  of  distrust  crept 
over  her.  She  endeavored  to  cheer  herself  by 
recalling  Gerald's  many  thoughtful  little  atten- 
tions and  expressions  of  tenderest  love — things 
that  had  made  her  engagement  days  so  happy, 
but  try  as  she  might  she  could  not  dispel  the 
gloomy  forebodings  that  had  now  quite  taken 
possession  of  her,  and  she  sobbed  herself  to 
sleep. 

Slowly  the  shadows  lengthened;  the  light 
waned;  the  glare  of  the  snowy  hills  was  soft- 
ened and  the  outlines  of  Steve  Warren's  empty 
cottage  in  the  far  distance  grew  dim. 

The  clouds  were  gathering. 


114] 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 


CHAPTER  XV 

A  Pathetic  Spectacle 

A  terrific  blizzard  was  blowing  as  Con- 
stable Newt  Plum  crept  along  the  deserted  vil- 
lage street  holding  to  the  barber  poles  and 
hitching  racks  and  occasionally  falling  ex- 
hausted on  the  stoop  of  some  shop.  Indeed  he 
presented  a  pathetic  spectacle.  His  great  blue 
uniform  now  hung  from  his  shoulders  in  loose 
folds  and  cracked  and  flapped  in  the  gale  like 
a  huge  silken  banner  unfurled  to  the  breezes. 

He  had  long  passed  the  three  score  and  ten 
mark,  and  his  tireless  efforts  to  solve  the  mys- 
tery of  Tharp's  Corner  had  been  more  than  his 
aged  frame  could  stand.  His  emaciated  condi- 
tion caused  much  concern  among  his  kindly 
neighbors,  and  the  tradesmen,  too,  were  ex- 
cited lest  his  overzealousness  should  seriously 
cripple  the  business  interests  of  the  commu- 
nity, since  now  the  indefatigable  old  constable 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 


arrested  and  clubbed  every  visitor  that  ven- 
tured within  its  precincts,  and  many  fierce 
combats  disturbed  the  peace  and  quiet. 


Constable  Plum 

The  constable's  face  was  now  sunken  and 
wrinkled  and  looked  not  unlike  a  dried  quince, 
but  the  steel-eyed  sleuth  kept  his  own  counsel 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 

and  guarded  the  silver  clew  that  reposed  at 
all  times  in  his  leather  wallet  like  a  miser,  con- 
fident all  the  while  that  the  metal  trifle  would 
one  day  solve  the  crime  that  had  besmirched 
the  county's  fair  name. 

It  was  now  the  twenty-third  day  of  Decem- 
ber and  Gerald  Leigh's  plans  so  far  had 
worked  out  to  the  letter.  Steve  Warren  Was 
being  held  in  a  neighboring  town  under  some 
pretense  while  a  modern  airship  lay  anchored 
behind  the  hills  in  readiness  for  the  morrow. 

Cheery  and  loving  as  Gerald  had  been  when 
he  called  on  Marion  earlier  in  the  day  his  man- 
ner had  quite  failed  to  drive  forth  the  dark, 
ominous  thoughts  that  had  filled  her  mind 
since  their  last  meeting.  It  was  with  a  heavy 
heart  that  she  now  looked  after  the  final  prep- 
arations for  her  marriage,  and  she  wept  bit- 
terly when  she  realized  that  she  was  to  leave 
dear  old  Red  Stone  Hall  with  all  its  associa- 
tions behind  her  forever. 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 

Gerald  Leigh  was  pacing  about  his  apart- 
ments smoking  a  final  cigarette  before  retir- 
ing after  a  busy  and  most  satisfactory  day. 
As  he  stood  by  his  window  looking  at  the 
bright,  full  winter  moon  he  smiled  and  said, 
addressing  the  great  yellow  orb:  "Ah,  old 
fellow,  when  you  rise  on  Christmas  eve  I  shall 
be  the  richest  chap  in  all  Christendom." 

And  then  he  laughed  heartily. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
Tht  Abduction 


The  morning  of  December  twenty-fourth 
broke  calm  and  clear,  and  Gerald  Leigh  was 
quick  to  note  the  ideal  conditions  for  air  sail- 
ing. He  had  ridden  far  into  the  country  for 
a  last  secret  conference  with  his  hirelings  and 
now  returned  in  splendid  spirits  and  was  on 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 


his  way  to  assure  Marion  that  every  detail 
looking  to  her  uncle's  departure  and  comfort 
had  been  looked  after.  He  found  her  sad  and 
depressed,  but  his  ardent  and  fervid  avowals 
of  tenderest  love  quite  revived  her.  When 
he  left  to  return  to  his  lodgings  her  old 
happy  spirit  and  courage  had  returned,  and  he 
chuckled  as  he  thought  of  his  magnetism. 

The  hours  had  fairly  whizzed  by  and  Gerald 
Leigh  was  once  more  ascending  the  roadway 
to  gloomy  Red  Stone  Hall  for  what  he  hoped 
would  be  his  farewell  meeting  with  Marion 
Ellsworth.  Beside  him  in  the  rickety  hotel 
omnibus  sat  Rev.  Wiley  Tanger,  the  grave, 
stiff  minister  who  was  to  officiate  at  his  wed- 
ding. His  prominent,  smoothly  shaven  chin 
was  held  aloft  by  a  high  celluloid  collar  and 
came  dangerously  near  hitting  him  in  the  back 
at  times  as  they  jolted  along.  The  sea  bean 
buttons  on  his  cuffs,  which  were  of  the  same 
inflammable  material  as  his  collar,  rattled  like 


OF   RED    STONE    HALL 

hail  with  every  motion  of  the  old-fashioned 
vehicle  as  it  rolled  over  the  rough,  icy  surface. 
The  strong,  foul  odor  of  Gerald's  imported 
cigarette  quite  stifled  the  ashen  faced  preacher, 
and  as  they  alighted  in  the  dooryard  of  the 
ancient  and  venerable  mass  of  stone  and  mor- 
tar he  sniffed  the  fresh,  bracing  air  like  a  skit- 
tish colt. 

They  were  ushered  into  the  drawing  room 
by  a  prim  neighbor  woman  who  had  kindly  as- 
sisted Marion  through  the  worry  and  excite- 
ment of  the  last  few  hours  and  who  was  to  be 
the  only  witness  to  the  ceremony. 

Marion  looked  bewitching  in  her  beautiful 
gown  of  white  tulle  as  she  embraced  Gerald 
and  led  him  into  the  hall,  where  she  placed 
into  his  hands  a  deed  for  all  she  possessed  in 
the  world.  Returning  to  the  drawing  room 
they  stood  beside  the  frail  colonial  center 
table,  which  was  wobbling  beneath  a  mass  of 
fragrant  roses,  while  the  good  minister  pro- 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 

nounced  the  words  that  were  to  unite  them 
forever.  As  the  last  syllable  died  away  on  his 
thin  lips  a  cloaked  figure  appeared  in  the 
dimly  lighted  room  and,  like  a  flash  from  the 
heavens,  gathered  the  radiant  bride  in  its  arms 
and  vanished  before  the  astonished  groom  and 
those  about  him. 

Long  before  any  one  could  realize  what  had 
happened  a  pitiful  shriek  was  heard  which 
seemed  to  come  from  high  above  the  Austrian 
pines  that  clustered  near  the  shuttered  win- 
dow. 

Gerald  Leigh  played  his  part  perfectly. 
Reeling  across  the  room  as  one  terror  stricken 
he  frantically  called  for  an  alarm  to  be 
sounded  and  fell  exhausted  before  the  dying 
embers*  of  the  hearth  fire. 

The  news  of  the  sensational  abduction 
spread  rapidly,  and  soon  posses  of  determined 
men  were  scattering  in  every  direction  eager 

*Embers.     Coals  of  fire. 


OF   RED    STONE    HALL 

to  lay  hands  on  the  villain  who  had  borne  the 
fair  bride  away  just  at  the  happiest  moment 
of  her  blameless  life. 

Gerald  Leigh,  crushed  and  broken,  was 
carefully  moved  to  his  hotel,  where  his  legion 
of  friends  called  and  proffered  every  assist- 
ance. During  the  early  hours  of  morning  a 
low  whistle  called  him  to  his  window.  It  was 
one  of  his  confederates  bearing  the  news  that 
Steve  Warren  had  escaped,  a  bit  of  informa- 
tion that  nettled  him  greatly. 

He  remained  in  his  room  apparently  grief 
stricken  for  several  days  and  directed  the  offi- 
cers who  had  charge  of  the  searching  parties. 

The  fact  that  Steve  Warren  was  at  liberty 
worried  Gerald  Leigh  more  and  more  as  the 
hours  flew  by,  and  he  determined  to  connect 
him  with  Marion's  abduction  in  a  new  and 
more  desperate  way.  Accordingly  during  his 
next  conference  with  the  officers  he  related  to 
them  that  Warren  had  been  seen  in  the  vil- 

[15] 


THE    LOST   HEIRESS 


lage*  on  the  day  of  the  wedding,  that  he  was 
a  jilted  lover  of  Marion  and  that  it  was  not 
impossible  that  he  knew  more  than  he  would 
be  willing  to  tell.  The  whole  story  seemed  so 
plausible  that  the  sheriff  at  once  started  on 
this  new  clew  with  a  light  heart  and  a  fresh 
box  of  cartridges. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

■  Hurled  from  the  Clouds 
After  darting  through  the  portals  of  Red 
Stone  Hall  and  clearing  the  decaying  balus- 
trade with  a  single  bound  the  mysterious  ab- 
ductor of  Marion  Ellsworth  quickly  sped 
across  the  fields  with  his  swooning  burden  to 
the  airship  which  he  had  but  a  few  moments 
before  secreted  behind  a  tall  locust  hedge. 


^Village.     (Spanish)    villaje.     A    small    collection    ol 
houses  in  the  country. 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 


It  required  but  a  second  to  strap  Marion's 
limp  and  apparently  lifeless  form  to  the  frail 
seat  and  start  the  flapping  wings  of  the  aerial 
monster  and  guide  it  on  its  long  journey 
through  the  clouds.  Gracefully  the  huge  craft 
soared  heavenward  like  a  winged  specter,  and 
the  whirr  of  the  shuttle  was  soon  lost  among 
the  stars. 

Poor  Marion,  unconscious  from  fright,  was 
a  willing  captive  as  the  great  machine  whizzed 
through  the  chilling  currents  at  an  amazing 
speed  over  lighted  villages  and  cities,  across 
abyss  and  wooded  hill — moving  majestically 
on  while  the  moon's  rays  played  on  the  rip- 
pling rivers  and  streams,  or  turned  the  bosoms 
of  countless  lakes  into  flaming  sheets  of  ham- 
mered gold.  Like  some  beautiful  phantom 
the  pale  bride  in  her  snowy  gown  reclined 
motionlessly  among  the  rigging  as  they  flew. 

Many,  many  miles  must  they  have  traveled 
ere    consciousness    returned    to    Marion.      As 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 


her  eyes  slowly  opened  she  was  looking  into 
the  rough,  ugly  features  of  the  brute  beside 
her.  Sitting  erect  she  looked  about  her  and, 
at  once  realizing  her  predicament,  she  sum- 
moned all  her  strength  and  made  a  frantic 
effort  to  free  herself,  only  to  be  repulsed  by 
the  powerful  beast  at  the  wheel. 

Her  utter  helplessness  now  dawned  upon 
her  and,  terror  stricken,  she  wondered  what 
awful  fate  awaited  her  and  where  Gerald 
could  be.  Presently  she  rallied  and  seemed 
to  be  possessed  of  superhuman  strength  as  she 
made  a  final  struggle  to  break  the  stout  cords 
which  held  her.  In  this  desperate  contest  for 
supremacy  her  fastenings  snapped,  and  in  her 
heroic  fight  for  the  control  of  the  steering  gear 
she  lost  her  balance  and  was  dashed  to  the 
earth  miles  below. 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

The  Third  Degree 

It  is  the  first  day  of  January  and  soon  the 
lengthening  daylight  will  fall  upon  the  dim 
patches  of  green  and  show  where  gentle  spring 
lies  sleeping. 

It  is  too  early  for  the  hardy  crocus  to  throw 
its  banded  gold  across  the  pathway,  but  the 
bluebird,  spring's  first  harbinger,  calls  to  the 
"rathe  primrose"  from  the  naked  hawthorn 
spray  to  open  its  yellow  eyes  as  it  sits  hud- 
dled up  in  its  cloak  of  green.  The  trees  cov- 
ered with  hoarfrost  are  beautiful  to  look  upon, 
and  the  wild  grass  bending  beneath  its  weight 
seems  laden  with  crystals. 

It  was  an  easy  matter  to  locate  Steve  War- 
ren, and  his  arrest  and  subsequent  sweatings 
were  carried  out  under  the  personal  super- 
vision of  Gerald  Leigh.  He  was  thrown  into 
the  rude  jail  in  utter  ignorance  of  the  sus- 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 


picion  that  rested  upon  him,  and  there  he  re- 
mained for  several  days  without  food  or  water. 

When  sufficiently  weak  from  thirst  and 
hunger  Gerald  Leigh  entered  his  cell,  accom- 
panied by  the  sheriff,  and  dealt  him  a  thun- 
derous blow  with  his  gloved  hand  which  felled 
the  helpless  victim  to  the  stone  floor  where  he 
lay  in  a  heap, 

"What  have  you  done  with  your  old  sweet- 
heart, you  miserable  cur?"  asked  Gerald 
Leigh,  sneeringly. 

Warren  staggered  to  his  feet  and  asked  for 
mercy,  only  to  be  felled  again,  this  time  by 
the  famous  trip-hammer*  jolt.  As  he  lay  on 
the  floor  he  tremblingly  disclaimed  all  knowl- 
edge of  anything  whatsoever.  It  was  the 
sheriff's  turn  this  time  and  he  kicked  him  in 
the  side. 

"We  will  leave  him  alone  for  a  few  days 


*Trip-hammer.     A  powerful  tilt-hammer  operated  by 
steam. 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 


longer  till  he  can  refresh  his  hateful  memory," 
hissed  Gerald  Leigh,  and  he  scornfully  spat  at 
the  seemingly  lifeless  form  and  passed  out  of 
the  cell  followed  by  the  sheriff,  who  threw  a 
musty  soda  cracker  near  the  prostrate  victim 
as  the  iron  door  clanked  behind  them. 

Thoroughly  satisfied  that  Steve  Warren 
would  wilt  eventually,  they  set  about  to  in- 
vent some  new  torture.  It  was  decided  that 
the  jail  should  be  turned  about  so  the  prisoner 
could  have  a  full  and  unobstructed  view  of 
Red  Stone  Hall  on  the  hill  high  above. 

"That  should  soften  him  if  he  has  a  fiber  of 
sentiment,"  said  Gerald  Leigh  as  he  laughed 
in  his  sleeve  at  the  uncouth,  bewhiskered 
sheriff,  whose  small,  close  set  eyes  sparkled 
like  raindrops  at  this  newest  scheme. 

It  was  agreed,  too,  that  the  sheriff  should 
prepare  a  tray  full  of  tempting  victuals  and 
place  it  near  the  prisoner's  grated  window  and 
allow  the  appetizing  fumes  to  enter  therein. 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 

It  was  fully  five  hours  before  another  effort 
was  made  to  wrest  a  confession  from  the  now 
crazed  and  guiltless  farm  hand.  This  time 
the  sheriff  entered  the  stuffy  cell  with  a 
lighted  candle  and  Constable  Plum,  the  totter- 
ing old  scout,  approached  Warren  and  held  a 
pair  of  dainty  white  slippers,  which  had  been 
found  near  Red  Stone  Hall  soon  after  the  ab- 
duction, before  his  bruised  face  and  said: 

"See  here,  Steve  Warren,  blame  your  or- 
nery hide,  I've  knowed  ye  ever  since  a  lad,  an' 
now  you  'fess  up,"  emphasizing  the  last  word 
by  striking  the  innocent  prisoner  across  the 
face  with  his  heavy  hickory  cane,  which  even 
in  the  hands  of  a  toddling  infant  would  have 
been  a  dangerous  weapon. 

Poor  Steve  sank  to  the  floor  for  the  fifth  or 
sixth  time  within  twenty-four  hours,  and  the 
officers  left  the  cell  much  discouraged  over 
their  poor  success.     Finally  it  was  agreed  that 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 


the  prisoner  should  be  fattened  up  and  allowed 
to  take  his  chances  with  the  grand  jury. 

In  due  time  Steve  Warren  was  indicted, 
tried,  convicted  and  sentenced  to  be  hanged. 
As  the  brave,  young,  innocent  farmer  walked 
with  head  erect  from  the  ill  ventilated  court 
room  Gerald  Leigh  leaned  back  in  his  seat 
near  the  judge  and  smiled. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

Unma.sked 

February  has  been  likened  to  a  sturdy  coun- 
try lass  who,  with  the  tinge  of  the  hard,  red 
winter  apple  on  her  healthy  cheek,  strives 
against  the  wind  and  draws  her  russet  colored 
cloak  about  her  while,  with  bent  head,  she 
keeps  throwing  back  the  long  hair  that  blows 
about  her  face. 

[16] 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 


In  and  about  Gerald  Leigh's  tavern  all  was 
astir  as  the  busy  landlord  and  his  good,  plump 
wife  added  the  finishing  touches  to  the  sump- 
tuous feast  that  their  scoundrelly  guest  had 
ordered  for  himself  and  friends  in  honor  of 
Steve  Warren's  execution,  which  was  set  for 
the  following  day. 

At  one  end  of  the  long  dining  room  a  stage 
had  been  erected  whereupon  the  gaily  uni- 
formed silver  cornet  band  sat.  Just  back  of  this 
elevation  there  hung  from  the  wall,  imbedded 
in  bright  bunting,  a  portrait  of  the  fat,  bald 
judge  who  had  presided  at  Warren's  trial. 

It  was  indeed  a  queer  assemblage  that  filled 
every  chair  about  the  tables  while  the  savory 
mist  from  the  hot,  toothsome  viands  floated 
gracefully  to  the  ceiling  and  mingled  in 
friendly  rivalry  with  the  discordant  notes  of 
the  battered  brass  instruments. 

After  the  last  blatant  note  of  "Marching 
Through  Georgia"  the  round,  purple  circuit 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 


judge  delivered  a  stinging  address  on  the 
majesty  of  the  law  and  then  all  eyes  were 
turned  toward  Gerald  Leigh  as  he  arose  with 
a  smiling  face.  The  smile,  however,  was  short 
lived.  As  he  faced  the  gaily  festooned*  en- 
trance his  whole  countenance  changed  and  his 
face  wore  an  ashen  hue  as  he  gasped  and  fell 
backward  to  the  floor.  The  loquacious  throng 
now  sat  in  open  mouthed  amazement  as  the 
lost  heiress  of  Red  Stone  Hall,  frail  and  hag- 
gard, but  still  retaining  many  traces  of  her 
former  unusual  beauty,  passed  through  the 
dining  room's  flag  bedecked  entrance  and 
pointed  the  finger  of  scorn  at  the  inflamed  face 
of  Gerald  Leigh,  which  now  was  altered  past 
all  belief  by  anger  and  tortured  vanity.  As 
he  stood  with  clenched  fists  and  eyed  her 
wildly  Marion  related  her  awful  adventure  in 
a  low,  calm  voice  to  the  crowd  that  had  gath- 
ered about  her  and  accused  Gerald  Leigh  as 

*Festooned.     Furnished  with  festoons. 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 


being  the  sole  instigator  of  her  frightful  ex- 
perience. 

"The  girl  is  mad,"  cried  Gerald  Leigh  as 


She  "Pointed  the  Finger  of  Scorn  at  Gerald  Leigh 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 


he  edged  his  way  toward  the  door  only  to 
be  more  closely  surrounded  by  his  erstwhile 
friends. 

With  the  strength  of  a  maniac  he  frantic- 
ally pushed  them  aside  and  rushed  to  the  door, 
where  he  turned  and  hissed : 

"My  curses  on  you  all!" 

As  he  wheeled  about  he  fell  into  the  strong 
arms  of  the  sheriff,  and  in  the  struggle  that 
followed  his  cigarette  case  fell  at  the  feet  of 
Constable  Plum. 

There  was  just  one  little  bit  of  silver  orna- 
mentation missing  on  this  case,  otherwise  both 
sides  of  it  would  have  been  identical — and  it 
reclined  at  this  moment  in  the  leather  wallet 
of  Constable  Plum. 

"What  a  supreme  contempt  on  the  part  of 
Destiny  for  criminal  smartness."  This  enor- 
mous trifle — a  tiny  silver  fleur  de  lis  torn  from 
its  fastenings  and  lying  in  the  grass. 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 


The  proud,  dashing,  affable  Gerald  Leigh 
was  soon  in  the  toils,  and  a  peep  into  his 
trunks  and  bags  brought  to  light  many  evi- 
dences of  his  double  life  and  served  to  clear 
up  a  long  chain  of  mysteries  reaching  almost 
across  the  continent,  not  the  least  among 
which  was  the  murder  of  Langdon  Ellsworth, 
the  father  of  Marion,  who  had  disappeared 
during  her  babyhood  and  who  was  returning 
from  the  West  after  years  of  prospecting  with 
his  golden  harvest,  and  who,  at  a  neighboring 
sanitarium  where  he  had  stopped,  had  related 
the  fabled  tale  of  the  riches  of  Red  Stone  Hall 
to  Gerald  Leigh. 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 


CHAPTER  XX 

The  Old,  Old  Story 

Winter,  who  seems  to  have  been  asleep, 
shows  his  cloudy  form  once  more  above  the 
bare  hilltops,  from  whence  he  scatters  his 
snowflakes,  while  the  timid  birds  cease  their 
song  and  again  shelter  in  the  still  naked  hedge 
rows. 

Eager  to  be  spared  the  cost  of  a  long, 
tedious  trial  and  anxious  to  save  Marion  Ells- 
worth from  all  the  humiliation  and  distasteful 
notoriety  possible  the  good  county  officials 
gladly  allowed  Gerald  Leigh  to  be  removed 
to  an  Eastern  city  where  several  grave  charges 
awaited  him  and  where  his  chances  of  escape 
would  be  meager. 

The  new  turn  of  affairs  of  course  brought 
freedom  to  Steve  Warren,  and  he  returned  to 
the  village  of  his  birth  bleached  and  thin  after 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 


his  long  confinement.  The  slack  in  Constable 
Plum's  uniform  gradually  disappeared  and  the 
sly  old  codger  was  the  principal  point  of  in- 
terest in  the  little  community.  During  the 
excitement  of  the  memorable  Christmas  eve 
Marion's  aged  uncle  passed  away  and  was  ten- 
derly added  to  the  silent  colony  in  the  church- 
yard on  the  hill. 

For  many  years  to  come  the  monotony  of 
the  long  winter  evenings  in  the  quiet  settle- 
ment will  be  broken  by  the  weird  and  thrill- 
ing story  of  Marion  Ellsworth's  long  flight 
through  the  clouds  and  her  miraculous  escape 
from  death  after  falling  thousands  of  feet — of 
her  timely  return  to  save  innocent  Steve  War- 
ren from  the  gallows  and  to  tear  the  mask 
from  the  handsome  face  of  Gerald  Leigh,  the 
arch  villain,* 


*Villain.     A  scamp. 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 


Marion  was  sitting  again 
before  a  cozy  fire  of  beech- 
wood  in  old  Red  Stone  Hall, 
and   in   her  lap   lay   a  well 
thumbed  volume  of  Robin- 
son Crusoe,  her  favorite 
novel,  while  in  the  kitchen, 
rattling  among  the  pots  and 
pans,  was  the  kindly  neigh- 
bor woman  who  was.  nurs- 
ing her  back  to  health  and 
strength  again.     A  footstep 
in  the  hall  awakened  Marion  from  her  reverie 
and   she   turned  her  weary  eyes   toward  the 
door.     Steve  Warren  was  there. 
"Steve!" 
"Marion !" 


"SteVe!" 
"Marion!" 


[171 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 

CHAPTER  XXI 

The  Warrens 

The  hawthorne  berries  are  beginning  to 
show  red  in  the  hedges,  and  we  see  scarlet 
heps*  where  only  a  short  while  ago  the  clus- 
tering sweet  briar  bloomed.  Here  and  there 
in  sunny  places  the  bramble  berries  have  be- 
gun to  blacken,  yet  many  yet  wear  a  crude 
red,  while  some  are  green.  The  bee  seems  to 
move  wearily,  while  the  happy  gleaners  dot 
the  cornfields  and  contrast  strangely  with  the 
rich  morsels  of  color.     It  is  September. 

Red  Stone  Hall  has  been  dismantled  and 
carted  away,  and  the  commanding  clay  emi- 
nence upon  which  it  stood  and  defied  the 
storms  of  so  many  decades  is  gradually  being 
devoured  by  the  thriving  brick  mill  at  its  base. 
No  golden  treasure  was  found  beneath  the  cel- 
lar floor  and  no  evidences  of  the  rich  ore  that 
was  supposed  to  thread  the  red  earth  have  de- 
veloped. 

'Heps.     Fruit  of  the  dog  rose. 


OF    RED    STONE    HALL 


Far  across  the  fading  valley  may  be  seen  a 
white  speck  standing  out  boldly  against  the 
September  haze.  As  you  journey  on  through 
the  lazy  town  and  across  the  parched  mead- 
ows and  up  the  winding  road  through  the 
cool  arcades  of  ancient  trees  you  stand  face  to 
face  with  Steve  Warren's  whitewashed  cot- 
tage. Everywhere  you  look  are  evidences  of 
thrift  and  contentment.  The  broad  fields  are 
dotted  with  shocks  of  grain  or  spotted  herds 
of  full-uddered  cows.  In  the  barnyard  near 
the  bursting  granaries  bright  plumaged  fowls 
and  romping  calves  are  seen,  while  brilliant 
clusters  of  old-fashioned  flowers  border  the 
beds  of  ripened  vegetables  in  the  little  kitchen 
garden.  Even  an  old  grindstone  stands  under 
a  well  laden  apple  tree  near  the  kitchen  door. 
The  dinner  bell  cord  swings  in  the  gentle 
breezes,  while  the  highly  polished  glass  jars 
that  adorn  the  garden  fence  shine  in  the  even- 
ing sun. 


THE    LOST    HEIRESS 

Slowly  up  the  long,  narrow  lane  comes 
Steve  Warren  and  his  tired  and  steaming  team 
of  broad  shouldered  Normans  with  their  rat- 
tling chain  traces  dragging  through  the  dust. 
He  is  riding  one  sidewise,  while  the  other  fol- 
lows with  hanging  head.  Across  his  knee  is 
thrown  a  heavy  doubletree,  and  on  his  honest 
bronzed  countenance,  half  hidden  by  his  droop- 
ing greasy  hat,  is  an  expression  of  perfect 
peace  and  happiness.  As  he  passes  a  straw- 
stack  he  is  reminded  of  his  sweetheart's  nar- 
row escape  from  death,  and  he  thinks  of  the 
long,  dreary  days  that  she  lay  unconscious 
among  strangers  in  a  farm  house  far  away,  and 
he  silently  thanks  a  merciful  Providence  for 
sparing  the  life  of  the  girl  who  is  now  his  wife. 
Approaching  the  well  worn  bars  he  waves  to 
the  girlish  figure  that  sits  in  the  mossy  door- 
yard.  It  is  Marion — and  she  is  knitting  a  pair 
of  tiny  booties. 

THE  END. 


Other  Abe  Martin  Books 


Abe  Martin's  Almanack  for  1909  ($1.00), 
Abe  Martin's  Almanack  for  1910  ($1.00). 

Abe  Martin  Pub.  Co.,  Indianapolis. 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


V 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    001  040  528    0 


